Let the Galaxy Burn
by Antony444
Summary: ASOIAF Space Opera AU. The War of the Usurper has left the Seven Stellar Sectors of Westeros in flames. Worlds are ravaged. Millions died. But as bloody and desperate battles are waged by those loyal to the Targaryen dynasty, the whispers of another, greater and terrible conflict are in preparation in the shadows. Forget peace. There is only an eternity of war among the stars...
1. The Road to Hell (Prologue 1)

**Author note** : A long time ago, I lamented as a writer how to make battles more epic and gigantic than they were written in GRRM books. For those who follow A different weasel makes a difference, you know how my efforts went.  
That said at approximately the same time, I was seized by the idea of mixing elements from Warhammer 40 000 with ASOIAF. Not with the intervention of Chaos Gods (though it would be funny). But rather taking the direction of ASOIAF as a full-grown space opera. Tentative title would be the _Galactic Westerosi Civil War._  
I honestly don't know if it will grow one day to a proper timeline...but here is a prologue of what could be the beginning. Took me months to fix, but I think it's good now. New title is Let the Galaxy Burn. Enjoy.

 **Prologue 1**

 **The Road to Hell**

 _My name is Samwell Tarly and I'm going to die..._

 _I have lived too long, seen and did too many things for one life. When I was young, my friends called me the Fat One. Then they called me the Innovator. The Tamer. The Commander Without Fear. And finally, the Lone Sentinel. Before leaving this world, I would like to remember the history a last time. Like it really did, not like the tales and histories that are counted around a bonfire in far away stars. I've met them all: Rhaenys Targaryen, the Second Queen Who Never Was. Baela Targaryen, the Icefyre Queen. Stannis Baratheon, the Black Stag. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. And so many others ... The Dawn Star. The Invincible Admiral. The Imp. The list is endless._

 _I've known personally Aegon Targaryen, the one who was then called the Prince Who was Promised. The one who was supposed to be_ _Azor Ahai reborn. The man every priest of R'hllor proclaimed the Last Hero and the Bringer of Dawn. I was at his side when the Targaryen family tore each other apart in a bloody struggle to grab the power supreme of the Iron Throne. When worlds burnt and mighty fleets gathered to decide the fate of the Seven Stellar Sectors of Westeros._

 _I was with him and I know the legend too well. I participated in writing it, after all. But I omitted a lot of truths, to preserve the morale of the soldiers fighting for humanity's survival. Aegon was never this hero with silver hair and purple eyes, the perfect prince and knight as the bards sing of him today. Like too many Targaryens, Aegon was a liar and a monster, a man who would have murdered a man if he thought it gave him the right to bed the man's wife._

 _Yet this is not only the history of a man and his fatal flaws. This is the history of an entire galaxy. How, involuntarily, we lords of three hundred worlds led all humanity so close to Hell. And how others than us saved it..._

 _The history. Ah, yes. I suppose it began with a young soldier, a long time ago on a tragic day of 283AC. Although I would not meet him for two decades, it was on this day Ayric Sarring's military career really began. In an orbital assault which changed the course of the Usurper's War..._

 **The Lone Lieutenant I, 05.06.283AAC, Binary Twins System**

"They say the orbital defences of the planet have been deactivated, Lieutenant. It's going to be a walk in a park!"

"You've never walked in one of the worst parks of Lannisport, heh Lan?" Replied Lieutenant 3rd class Ayric Sarring, trying to fight his annoyance at yet another stupid remark of the newest addition in his platoon. "And stop playing with your seat's security belts. In case of emergency, you will be the first to be pressured into a bloody paste!"

A chorus of genuine laughs welcomed this reply. At the same time, Sergeant Raff Preslan, who was sitting on Lan Kel's right, gave him a playful hit on the helmet to make sure the young recruit wouldn't try to open his mouth until they landed on the surface of Bridge's Edge, sole and only inhabitable planet orbiting the sun of Twin A.

Nevertheless, one look at the small tactical display of the assault shuttle confirmed the trooper's sentence. There was zero activity from the massive orbital installations, on which there were thousands of missiles, lasers platforms and other unpleasant surprises waiting for them. On a purely electronic point of view, the space around the planet Bridge's Edge was dead.

"Do you think the northern barbarians abandoned the system knowing we were on the move, Lieutenant?" Asked Trooper Gor who was on Ayric's opposite seat.

"Possibly. I doubt they knew it was our army who would come to take the system, but they had to know someone would come."

"So the war's almost over, eh?" Asked Lan Kel, whose silence had not lasted very long. "With the Usurper dead at the Trident, the war is finished! The River and Storm Sector are gone. Only the Northern barbarians and the Vale are remaining, and they will surrender soon if they do not want to be crushed!"

Only a loud silence answered the young idiot. "What?"

 _You have just proved you are an imbecile who believes every piece of Targaryen and Lannister propaganda who come this way_ , thought Ayric. _Not that I was expecting anything else from you_.

The Targaryen fleet had won at the Trident, yes, they had shouted it so much on the galactic network only a hermit on a far far away planet had missed the news. But only a moron (which apparently included Lan Kel) missed the fact the glorious "victory" at the Trident had created an endless list of casualties. Hundreds of thousands dead spacers, with more thousands injured who would never serve in a military force again. Ayric had heard a rumour every loyalist hospital ship had been commandeered by a Royal order no less to rush to the Trident to save the maximum of wounded. He was too low in the Army hierarchy to know if it was true or not, but it was a grim assessment of the first estimates coming from this massacre.

The Royal Fleet had not left the Harrenhal system since the Battle of the Trident, and it had been four months ago. Right now, the military forces of the Western Sector were the only offensive forces left fighting in the River Sector, having not been involved in this bloody slaughter.

Adding these simple facts, Ayric honestly doubted the war was as over as the memos coming from the higher-ups claimed. Even if the Twins System fell in one swoop, there was still the little matter of taking the legendary fortress world of Moat Cailin...

Suddenly the assault shuttle executed a 180 degree turn and every member of the platoon found himself the head under his body without warning.

"What the hell, Lanning!" Screamed Ayric in his radio to the pilot of his shuttle. "I know you were furious about that last card game yesterday but it's not a reason to make everyone here vomit! When this is over you will pay for this!"

After several interminable seconds the assault shuttle came back to its normal position and the voice of Rock Officer Lanning came on his radio in a panicked tone:

"Sorry, Sarring, but the orbital defences of the planet have just come online! And there are Northern heavy cruisers coming from the other side of the planet! They will have us in range of their missiles in a minute!

"Oh, crap." Ayric felt the sweat cooling on his neck.

"Can you manage to land us on the planet before every orbital gun is fully activated?" Ayric asked in reply.

"Maybe." The voice of Pilot Lanning was lacking any joy at the prospect of executing such a suicidal action. "But we will have to land with the ground defences shooting at the shuttle all the way. And the Northern army is no doubt waiting for you here."

"I rather take my chance against their army than return to the transports under the fire of an entire orbital installation and a space fleet!"

"Acknowledged. But this is one-way ticket, Lieutenant. If our fleet doesn't secure the orbital in twenty-four minutes..."

"Then we're dead anyway. Do it." Said flatly Ayric before cutting the communication and turning towards his squad, who had apparently heard enough of his conversation to know there was a massive problem and began to seal their red and gold battle-armours.

"It seems," Ayric Sarring said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, "that the northern barbarians haven't gotten the memo from Trooper Kel that they are supposed to surrender. A part of their fleet was hidden behind the planet, and they have just activated the orbital defences. So our landing is going to get a little rough."

The faces of the troops under his command were livid, and for good reason. Even the most stupid recruit knew of the vulnerability of the transport they were currently in. Assault shuttles built in the shipyards of the Rock and Lannisport had been specifically conceived to land troops once the space defences of a planet were in ruins and the ground defenders were under the guns of the Lannister fleet. Against an intact battery of defensive lasers or some big missiles used by the military ships, a simple shuttle's only chance of survival lied in fleeing away as fast as possible from the danger.

Sure enough, it was Trooper Kel who broke the silence.

"We are going to die!" He wailed. "The barbarians are going to shred our shuttle in..."

"Sergeant Preslan!" Ayric said with a very nasty smile.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Silence Trooper Kel immediately!"

"With pleasure!"

And the massive sergeant, by a large margin the most muscled man of the squad, smashed his armoured fist in Kel's helmet, the shock being such the trooper was knocked out instantly.

"Good. I had enough of his screams." Said Ayric, with relief on his voice. He supposed he should not feel good after just ordered one of his men to silence another, but Lan Kel's voice these last weeks had badly hit his nerves.

"It is not his fault, Lieutenant", whispered someone on his right. "He was one of the untrained ones who were rushed to the front after the casualties we suffered at Wayfarer's Rest."

Ayric winced. The point was well-made, but...

"It's been a month since he arrived in our squad. There has not been any exercise or mop-up operation he has performed correctly or missed any occasion to wail or complain. I understand our intervention in the war came at such short a notice..." Understatement of the year, when they had found themselves to the frontlines before they knew what happened. "But this is no excuse for his behaviour. He has signed to serve in the army of the Western Sector. If he can't handle it, then he can resign. Go home. I will not restrain him."

The conversation could have continued, except the shuttle then started a series of acrobatic manoeuvres which made the soldiers stuck on their seats by the belts pass in every possible position an uncountable number of times.

Then Pilot Lanning's voice came out of his existence on his helmet's radio.

"Sarring, this is Lanning. Landing in fifty seconds."

"Anything you can tell me?"

"This is complete chaos here." The Flying officer's voice seemed calm, too calm for the situation. "There are shuttles in flames everywhere, the transports are under attack by the enemy and we are targeted from the ground too now. You can expect a very hot welcome on the ground. Landing point roughly three hundred kilometres south-east-east of Walder the City. Now fasten yourself and prepare to run at my signal. Given the situation, I will not let my shuttle stay on the ground more than thirty seconds."

"Tell me you do not intend to go back to the transports." Said Ayric flatly.

His voice was answered by nothing. Lanning had already shut down his radio. Looking at the eleven other members of the squad in the compartment, he gave the orders.

"Landing in about forty seconds. Take everything you can carry and run out of the shuttle to cover. Enemy resistance is expected to be on the way."

"What do I do about Kel?" Asked Preslan, in an enthusiastic voice. "Do you want me to wake him up?" His voice left no doubt about the method he would use to administer the treatment.

"No. He is a dead weight, but better let him stay unconscious and carry him out of danger that way."

"We could let him stay on the shuttle." Proposed Trooper Avrel.

"Tempting. " Affirmed Ayric. "Very tempting, but there is little chance he would arrive in one piece to our transport for the court-martial he deserves. The situation in space does not look good. Sergeant Preslan will take him to cover."

Just at that moment the assault shuttle landed. Or more exactly, it crashed, as the violence of the landing resonated painfully in every soldier's bones.

"Everyone out!" Bellowed Preslan in a voice which tolerated no argument.

"Go! Go! Go! "Shouted Ayric, taking his laser rifle with the rest of his equipment and following his men, being the one the furthest away from the opening ramp on the right side of the shuttle.

Trooper Avrel was the first out, and began to shout "For Lannisport!" and shoot at something with his rifle. Emerging into the cold sun of Bridge's Edge, Ayric recorded with horror the shuttle had crashed just in front of a local medium-sized bunker, which by all accounts was pouring a murderous fire on his and several other squads.

"Use your plasma grenades! The rifles will do nothing against the bunker!" Ayric shouted in the radio.

He had not the time to say more. There was a loud explosion, and Ayric felt himself thrown far away on his back. Groaning, it took him five seconds or so to rise on his own. The spectacle which welcomed him back was one of disaster. The assault shuttle which had brought him and his squad here was a smoking metal wreck.

And in front of him, where several squads of regular infantry had charged, was a pool of corpses and blood. Here and there, around him, some Lannister soldiers, heavily recognisable in their brilliant red and gold uniform stood, dazed from the shock.

The bunker did not look as it had taken a scratch. And the absence of visible cannons combined to the precision of the strike could only mean one thing. It was not the ground troops who had fired against them.

"Orbital strikes! Take cover!"

Ayric ran before realising it was his own voice who had spoken. As long as the defenders of the bunker had their sight on him, they could call their friends in orbit and murder them instantly. Staying there would be his death.

Fortunately, the terrain where the shuttle had just landed was nearby a forest, and around him he saw hundreds of Lannister troops running in the same direction. If they could reach the woods, there was a chance they could regroup and...

A series of sinister figures emerging from the ground a few hundred meters just in front of him put an end to that idea.

Each of them wearing massive grey battle armour, the five Northern soldiers began to massacre the fleeing infantry, a task made even easier by the fact some of the fastest troopers to escape had thrown their weapons away to run faster. Three of them were using automatic laser guns, while the two others were using vibro-swords to tear apart the red-uniformed soldiers having closed too much with them.

One of the Northerners, cutting three troopers one by one with his sword in a succession of brutal moves, screamed "Our blades are sharp!"

Ayric stopped running, crawled to the ground holding his rifle, and then proceeded to shoot in anger at the men who just massacred so many Western infantry. A barrage of completely inaccurate but massive rifle fire added to his efforts, and soon all the Northmen fell one by one, plasma grenades and the weight of the fire salvo proving enough to destroy their protections.

Watching around him, though, the triumph was a bitter one. The plain was covered of dead men, and most of those wore the red and gold of Ayric's own uniform.

Standing up, Ayric started to run again, finally reaching the woods. Here and there, infantrymen like him were reaching the relative safety of the trees.

 _But so few_ , he thought bitterly. How many of us died in this... looking at his officer watch he sighed. Only five minutes? It had felt, far, far longer than that.

Trying to communicate with his platoon commander by radio, he was only met by silence. Same for the company level. It was only at the battalion level he heard someone speaking, but the sound was garbled and he couldn't make anything of the words. Cutting the radio, he continued to march rapidly for fifteen minutes in a direction he figured was the west given the late position of the sun on his back. If he was the enemy, he would have not let the occasion to exterminate the Western remnants. Better move away from the bunker and the Northern infantry the furthest he could.

Just as he had made this reflection, the horizon burned, and a new orbital strike fell on the edge of the woods he had just occupied twenty minutes ago. Loud sounds which could only be artillery and heavy barrage of weapons added their litany of destruction. Ayric could not stop staring, hearing in the distance the men of his own army scream in agony as they get slaughtered... and he could do nothing to stop it.

"Lieutenant?"

Ayric turned, to see Sergeant Raff Preslan emerge from the trees.

"I should have known you were going to survive, Sergeant." Said Ayric.

"The same, Lieutenant." Told Preslan in a voice a bit too emotional compared to the norm which made his heavy accent of the Lannisport slums reappear. "I disobeyed orders, Lieutenant. I let Trooper Kel on the edge of the woods and ran. There wasn't enough time..."

Ayric raised his left hand in dismissal. "It is not like it made much difference, no? If you had tried to carry him, you would likely be dead right now. For now, our mission is to ensure our own survival. We will think about our dead later."

"Yes, Lieutenant. Do you think they are other survivors from our squad?"

"Unlikely. They were in the middle of the strike. I survived by pure luck." Ayric was forced to admit that with a certain dose of bitterness. First real command, eleven men under his orders and after less than one hour only one is alive. Great performance. "Anyway, our command structure and our communications are just shot to hell. The enemy controls the orbital weapons and as long as they do, fighting in the open we will just be meat for the Northern troops."

"Never thought possible the Starks would be able to organise such a trap." Sighed Preslan.

"Unless I miss my guest, "said Ayric as he readjusted his military backpack."The troops we just fought were not Starks but Boltons."

"And what is the difference?"

"From the few military records of the different engagements I saw, the Starks kill you promptly and efficiently. The Bolton will enjoy torturing you a bit before giving you a long and painful death."

"Joy. I suppose we better not become prisoners of war, then."

"Absolutely not." Agreed Ayric. "Let's try to walk the furthest away from the battlefield we can. There is still two or three hours of day, if we avoid the patrols of the North, we have a chance of survival."

"Let's do this." Agreed the massive sergeant. "You know, if we survive, it will give a hell of story to tell to our children and great-children."

"I doubt it, Sergeant. Every child wants to hear the tales of glorious victories. If this campaign continues like it has begun, they will name it 'To Hell and back' or something like this. No children will want to hear it."

"So pessimistic at eighteen years old." Growled Preslan in an amused tone.

"We serve Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, no? Our only duty is to die. Ours not to reason why!"

Laughing without much emotion, Raff Preslan took the lead and marched in direction of the west. Ayric followed him. Behind them, the screams of dying soldiers echoed, awful reminder of the military disaster the armies of the Western Sector had just suffered.

 **The Defeated Admiral I, 05.06.283AAC, Binary Twins System**

"Do something, but do it NOW! My men are being slaughtered by the Boltons!" Screamed Lord Sumner Crakehall, General of the Western army and commander in chief of the Lannister 3rd and 5th army.

"Cut this communication." Ordered Admiral of the Lions Loren Lannister to his chief of staff.

"As you order, Admiral."

The voice and the image of Lord Crakehall disappeared from the main screen on the Proud _Lion_ 's bridge, replaced by the tactical display of the system of Twin A.

Red dots represented the Western formations and warships. Green was the colour used to represent probable or certain enemy units. At the moment, mused Loren, there was a lot of green on the display and not enough of red. And the planet itself was glowing of a threatening and dark green, where an hour ago thousands of red dots had approached it.

"What's the latest estimate of their strength?" He asked again.

"Our captors report one ship of the line, four armoured cruisers, four battlecruisers, eight heavy cruisers, nine escort carriers and a dozen or so of light and scout cruisers around Bridge's Edge. Designed this force Contact One. Two battlecruisers, five heavy cruisers, two light carriers and six scout cruisers in the outer asteroid's belt. Designed this force Contact Two."

Captain Tybolt Lantel raised his eyes and added: "We have confirmed the ship of the line is the _Flesh Tearer_."

"Bolton." Loren threw the world like an insult.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Are the other ships sworn to the Dreadfort?"

"Difficult to say." Replied Lantel, throwing one glace at the tactical display. "The Northern warships are generally built along the same specifications, so it's hard to guess which belongs to whom. But yes, I think these are only the Bolton warships, Admiral."

"Can we win?" Loren knew very well the answer, but he had to hear it from an outside source, if only to be sure his mind and his tactical sense still worked.

"Admiral," said his chief of staff hesitantly. "We have exactly one ship of the line, three battlecruisers, two heavy cruisers and one fleet carrier left. Bolton has massacred our entire fighter force and most of our light units by surprise when he emerged from the other side of Bridge's Edge. The ships of the line and the battlecruisers which were sent in the outer asteroid belt in pursuit of these fake transports were destroyed. Given our current strength, there's no way we can win an old-fashioned battleline engagement with the Northern Fleet, Admiral. We may be able to cause them some damage, but there's no way victory can be achieved."

"That was my opinion too." Loren whispered.

 _But what am I going to do_ , he thought. _Lantel is right about the rapport of force, but if I abandon Lord Crakehall and the better part of two field armies on Bridge's Edge to the tender mercies of Bolton, Tywin will take a page from the Northerner's book and skin me alive! And that doesn't factor what Aerys would do to me if I fell in his hands._

In his mind, Loren freely admitted he had shamelessly used his power base at Lannisport to rise and obtain the officer grade in the Western fleet. Six months ago, he was unquestionably the most powerful general officer of the Lannisport system and in the top ten of the most powerful men of the Western Sector. His command, named Third Fleet, had consisted in 4 ship of the lines, 2 armoured cruisers, 12 battlecruisers, 24 heavy cruisers, 15 light cruisers, 50 scout cruisers, 2 Fleet carriers, 6 Light carriers, 20 Escort carriers. But that was six months ago.

Now, he was left with a handful of warships, all because Prince Rhaegar, the buffoon, had proposed he led the assault on the Twins, to, in the dragon's own terms, "avenge the slaughter of House Frey". _And like an imbecile, I agreed_. The chances of being granted one of the system of the Twins after the end of the conflict was slim, but it existed, and being the admiral to kick the Northmen out of the civilised sectors (one could hardly call the North and the Vale sectors civilised after all!) would have granted Loren a prestige few officers would have dared elevate against.

"Your orders, Admiral?"

Loren exhaled a loud breath. Leaving the system to Roose Bolton would be tantamount to open himself up to charges of cowardice and treason in face of the enemy from his political enemies at home. In time of peace, Loren felt confident he would have convinced any court-martial of his innocence. He was too powerful, too influential and was linked to too many noble families of Lannisport for anyone to risk a bad verdict. But with Aerys on a rampage to burn anyone who had the temerity to defy him and Tywin searching for scapegoats in every corner to appease his rage, any court-martial in these conditions would see his execution before the day ended.

On the other hand, if Loren attacked and was as badly beaten as he feared, there was no certainty Lord Tywin Lannister, very distant cousin and supreme Lord Paramount of the Western Sector, was not going to eliminate him and his family for having the temerity to lose his command.

But if he won, if he managed to beat Bolton with these odds, there was a tiny possibility he could salvage something of this fiasco.

"Tell the fleet to advance at maximum speed towards Bridge's Edge. I want to engage the enemy at the earliest opportunity!" Loren's decision was welcomed by a silence of death on the flagship bridge. His assistants and other members of his staff continued to work, but he could tell the signs they weren't agreeing with his decision.

"Admiral," Said Tybolt Lantel in a low voice to avoid being heard by the others members of the crew. "There's no way we will be able to neutralise the orbital installations in time to relieve the two armies. Why not withdraw temporarily and regroup our forces to reconquer the system?"

"And where," Said Loren Lannister in a black moment humour, "will we find the ships to do so? Despite what our dear friends at King's Landing shout on Galactic Targaryen News every day, our forces are stretched to the breaking point trying to hold the River Sector. There are no reinforcements available right now, and there won't be for months."

A bit of exaggeration from him, Loren agreed, but not that much. With the Greyjoys doing their usual piracy activities in the Sunset Void, a good part of the Lannister fleet was immobilised due to garrison duties, and the rest were busy fighting the remnants of the Tully war fleet in the River Sector. Loren's fleet had been the only formation immediately available, as the Royal Fleet would need at least six or seven months before being counted as an operational unit again.

"But if we take them head-on we're all going to die!" Protested Lantel.

"Don't be ridiculous, Junior Captain." Sneered Loren, taking great care to use the miserable rank of his subordinate. "I intend to fight a missile duel at long range with Bolton. One in which our superior missiles and electronic measures will give us the advantage, negating the enemy's numerical superiority."

Lantel did not look at all convinced. "Our technological advantage has never been confirmed by reliable sources, Admiral. There has been no major engagement until now between us and the Northern fleet in this war, and the tactical reports from the Trident haven't reached us here. We are going to be blind to their capabilities until the first salvoes start to fly."

"Then, what are you doing here?" Loren said dismissively. "You have work to do." Tybolt Lantel saluted brusquely before returning to his post on the right side of the bridge.

Loren's was not left alone, though. Not ten seconds after he had sent away Lantel, a lone brown-haired lieutenant came a memo in his hands, with a scared look on his face.

"What?" Asked Loren in his best 'it had better be important' voice.

"Major-General Damon Lannister has surrendered the 5th Army, Admiral."

Loren's mind for a second refused to acknowledge the meaning of the sentence for several seconds. "HE WHAT?"

This had to be a mistake. Lannister armies didn't surrender. Oh, the occasional squad or company could, faced with overwhelming odds and the men were usually court-martialled if they came back alive to the Rock or Lannisport. But Lannister armies made a point of never surrendering. "Hear me Roar" was the motto of the most powerful House of the Western sector, and every general or admiral worth his rank knew what would happen to his reputation and his life (and those of his family) should he prove himself idiotic enough to surrender.

The Lieutenant in front of him continued in a pleading voice. "Ser Damon's situation was desperate, Admiral, and..."

Loren cut him from one reverse of his hand. "Why didn't General of the Lions Lord Sumner Crakehall stop him immediately? Last time I checked, he, not this Damon I've never even heard of before, was in charge of 5th Army!"

"General Crakehall is dead, Admiral." Said the lieutenant with the face of a man who knew he was about to deliver a litany of bad news. "So is his entire staff, his four corps commanders and thirteen of his division commanders. The orbital bombardments have been astonishingly effective in targeting our senior officers."

Loren could not help but stare open-mouthed at the magnitude of the disaster. If what the lieutenant had said was true, the command structure of 5th army was no more. It was a debacle. No, not a debacle, it was a total humiliation, and at the hands and guns of Northern barbarians, no less. And it was him, the senior naval officer in command, who would take the blame and face the court-martial for it.

"And 3rd Army?" Loren Lannister found himself asking.

"Unknown, Admiral. The situation is extremely confused on the ground, and their communications are garbled by some installation which began to emit as soon as the assault began. We think it's a Frey project the Bolton troops managed to capture intact. We haven't been able to communicate with General of the Lions Tion Lannis and his senior corps commanders, but his army has taken heavy losses."

By the Seven, thought Admiral Loren. Have we really lost two entire field armies in so short a time? It's not possible! We can't have suffered so many casualties! Not in two hours! Not at the hands of Northern barbarians!

"Thank you for your report, Lieutenant. If you have further information on the state of 3rd Army, please warn me." Loren said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, Sir."

"Admiral, we are at our extreme missile range from the Northern warships!" Announced loudly Tybolt Lantel.

"Open fire!" Snarled Loren Lannister, turning his attention towards his chief of staff. "Priority target is the _Flesh Tearer_!"

"Fire Plan Four, Primary Target is the _Flesh Tearer_ , aye!" Answered Lantel.

Loren grunted in satisfaction as fifty missiles erupted on his tactical display and rushed towards the Northern warships at sub-light speeds. Their red icons shined a malevolent colour, which briefly boosted the moral of the commanding officer of the Third Western Fleet. _You will not take me by surprise again, Bolton_ , he thought.

Seconds passed, and the Lannister missiles, armed with the most powerful nuclear warheads money could buy, crossed the vast amount of space measured in thousands of kilometres separating them from their targets.

Loren frowned. Something was not right. The Northern fleet wasn't shooting back!

"Admiral, should I order the starfighters of the Winged Lion to launch an anti-warship strike?" Asked Tybolt Lancel.

"No." Said Loren with a sign of denial from the head. "Bolton's wall of battle is intact, I will not send the few starfighters we have left to a certain death." He didn't felt the need to add 'like we have already done with two field armies', but he was sure everyone on the bridge had nonetheless heard those words.

"The Northern fleet is launching anti-missiles now, Admiral!" Shouted a captain with golden long hair on Loren's left.

"Let's see..." Said Loren, coming back to the tactical display in front of him. Immediately, he frowned. Something was not right, there was too much anti-missiles fired!

"Confirm the numbers!" He snarled.

"Numbers checked. Confidence is very high." Replied a Commander on his right.

"May the Warrior protect us..." Prayed someone on the Admiral's left.

Every civilised navy, as far as Loren Lannister knew, had always adopted designs of warships which enabled them to launch similar salvoes of anti-missiles. There was a difficult equilibrium to play, after all. Too many, and the ammunition stocks would be empty in the middle of an engagement. Too few, and the warships were opened to every enemy strike.

But as his display made painfully clear, the Northern barbarians did not seem to be concerned with this minor detail. His initial salvo of fifty was countered with more than three hundred and fifty anti-missiles. Every Lannister missile was countered, each disappearing under four or five anti-missiles, and exploding far from any warship of his enemy.

That was why they didn't answer with their own missile salvo, realised Loren, shocked beyond measure. This Bolton bastard knew he could handle whatever number of missiles Third Fleet could launch at him, and he had played with him like a lion playing with his prey!

"Forget Fire Plan Four." The Admiral said, turning to give his orders to Lantel. "Tell the starfighters to prepare for an anti-warship strike. We are going to need their numbers to break through."

"The casualties are going to be huge." Cautioned Junior Captain Tior Lancel, his chief of Fighter operations.

"It will be better than..."

"Missiles! Missiles launch! Number: two hundred and fifty! Distance: Four hundred thousand kilometres!" Shouted a panicked lieutenant on the tactical section of the bridge.

Loren grimaced. Bolton had ceased to play and was closing for the kill. Still, two hundred and fifty missiles were nowhere near enough to saturate the massive defences of a ship of the line, especially from that far. It was not going to be good, but his depleted fleet would survive.

"Admiral," said Lantel. "The enemy is concentrating his fire on the _Winged Lion_."

"The bastard..." Said venomously Loren. Bolton had anticipated his strategy, and now was forcing him to launch a starfighter strike now or lose the opportunity forever.

"Do we launch the starfighters now?" Asked Tior Lancel.

"Yes." Said Loren, the bitter taste of defeat rising like bill in his mouth. "All missile launchers, fire at will. We need to cover their approach to ensure their strike will count." _They will not have the opportunity to make another one, after all_ , he thought.

In the nine and a half minutes it took for the Northern missiles to arrive, the _Winged Lion_ managed to launch ninety-eight starfighters out of his entire complement of one hundred and ten. Then the Bolton salvo hit like a hurricane. Lantel's observation was proven correct: the enemy commander had concentrated all his missiles on the fleet carrier.

Unlike a ship of the line, a fleet carrier didn't have the massive energy shields and armour plating a warship of its size should take for granted. Too much of its capacity was devoted to fighter bays, fighter repair facilities and others vitals mechanisms needed to make a fighter wing the redoubtable weapon it needed to be.

Third Fleet managed to intercept one hundred and two missiles in its defensive sphere. The other one hundred and forty eight got through. Six missed completely their mark, and four malfunctioned in their attack phase. As a result, the computers recorded the Winged Lion was 'only' bit by one hundred and thirty eight warheads, each built to rip apart a ship of the line piece by piece.

One instant the _Winged Lion_ was there. The instant after, a new star flashed in the Binary system of the Twins. Loren Lannister watched his display in shock. Two million tons of warship and more than five thousand men, destroyed like they never had existed.

Nine minutes later, the ninety-eight orphans of the _Winged Lion_ died in a storm of missiles without managing to scratch the paint of the Bolton warships.

"What do we do now, Admiral?" Asked a Lieutenant Commander in a tone which made clear he was on the verge of crying.

"Tell our heavy cruisers to redline their reactors and accelerate to their maximum speed. They must leave the system immediately and bring back the tactical data to the other Western commands." Ordered Admiral of the Lions Loren Lannister.

"Roose Bolton is never going to let them escape!" Protested his chief of staff.

"He will not have the choice." Loren's voice sounded hollow and without any feeling, even to him. "We are going to close the distance and engage the enemy more closely."

Junior Captain Tybolt Lantel looked his admiral directly in the eyes, and then very slowly, nodded in approval. What remained of the Lannister fleet would never survive at optimal missile range of the Northern fleet, that much was a given, but maybe some of the faster ships could survive and escape to warn the loyalist generals and admirals in the River Sector the assault on the Twins had failed.

"Missiles incoming! Two hundred and fifty missiles!"

Launching a spiteful look at his tactical display, Admiral Loren Lannister waited to see if his last chance of redemption worked. Seeing the waves of missiles racing to end the life of Third Fleet, the chances of that were getting slimmer and slimmer by the second.

 **The Lone Lieutenant II, 11.06.283AAC, Binary Twins System**

The Bolton soldier fell with a gurgle, his grey armour shattered and his throat slit in one strike by the terrible sharpness of the vibro-blade.

"Good fight." Said breathlessly Ayric Sarring to his defeated enemy, who by the look of it had only seconds left to live. "You almost had me."

There was no answer from his opponent. Not that Ayric had expected one. The eyes of the Northern soldier, a pale black colour visible through the broken glass of his helmet visor, were open but there was no light in them anymore.

"The things we do in time of war." Sighed Ayric, relieving the dead man of his laser pistol and his laser rifle.

"That wouldn't have happened if our idiotic high command had given us the proper tools!" Grumbled Sergeant Raff Preslan behind him.

Ayric turned to see the last surviving man of his squad.

"I assume the last one has been dealt with?"

"Yep." Said Preslan with satisfaction, opening the protective visor of his helmet. "The Northman thought he could run faster than my laser rifle. He was wrong."

"Your borrowed laser rifle, Sergeant." Rectified Ayric.

"Well," said Preslan. "It's not my fault the forges of the Rock aren't able to make proper rifles, isn't it?"

Ayric grimaced. Sergeant Raff Preslan was always disrespectful of anything looking like authority, but in this case he definitely had a point. Both his and Ayric laser rifles had suffered severe malfunctions after respectively sixteen and eighteen hours on Bridge's Edge, and their laser guns had lasted even less time, in overheat after mere hours of skirmishes.

That was the reason Ayric had a Northern vibro-sword in his left hand and Preslan a Northern rifle in both. After raiding six or seven times the corpses of fallen Lannister soldiers to gain their rifles and learn with disgust their malfunctions were the rule, not the exception, the two of them had begun to dispossess the Northern infantry of its weapons.

 _Task which was easier said than done_ , thought Ayric, posing his eyes on the four corpses in grey battle-armour in the clearing where he had fought them. In spite of having caught by surprise by the assault of the two lone survivors of the 201665th squad, the four Northmen had fought back with ferocity and determination. Ayric had been forced to use his last plasma grenade to kill two of them, empty the generator of his captured Northern rifle completely in the third and finish the fourth soldier with the vibro-blade. Sergeant Preslan had finished the fifth one.

The Northmen, soldiers recruited on the world of Dreadfort or one of the colonies sworn to it, were not only extremely motivated and fought well, but their equipment was also working. It could not be considered at the cutting edge of the existing technology, being about fifteen or so years old, but it was a proved design which unlike the Lannister rifles, guns and grenades had proved extremely efficient to counter the dispersed troops of the 3rd Lannisport army.

"Let's take what we need and let's disappear in the woods again, Sergeant. The friends of these ones," he designated the corpses" are likely on their way. We haven't been really discreet."

"And they won't be friendly when they see the corpses." Agreed Ayric's subordinate.

Two minutes later, after having taken everything in terms of food, water and weapons owned by their defeated opponents, they were on their way again into the dark woods which covered the majority of this area of the planet Bridge's Edge. Ayric opening the way and Preslan following.

In the distance, a ray of white light illuminated the morning.

"One more orbital strike." Said Ayric. "Someone in our army has not been careful enough."

This vision was getting rarer and rarer eight days after the disastrous landing they had been forced to accomplish. The orbital strikes had come every couple of minutes or so in the first hours of landing's day, before decreasing to a frequency of one or two per hour. Today, this was only the third one he and Preslan had seen, and the sun would be at its zenith in one hour or so.

What it meant concerning the state of the Lannister armies on the ground, Ayric preferred not to think about it.

"Maxim One: who controls the orbital, controls the planet." Ayric whispered.

"One of the rare proverbs the officers of our army get right." Approved the Sergeant from behind him. "Lieutenant, can I ask you a question?"

"Ask, but I don't promise I will answer." Replied Ayric.

"Why do the Northern troops operate by squad of five?" Ayric frowned. This was not a question he would have expected from the massive colossus born in the under-city of Lannisport. But it raised a good point.

"There are three theories." Said Ayric. "One for the Faith propaganda , one for the Targaryen propaganda and the real one. Which do you want to hear?"

"All of them."

"The Faith pretends it's because the Northern are heathens and heretics. Due to their rejection of the true gods, they have embraced a number which is unholy for their squad numbers."

"And people believe that?" The voice of the Sergeant was incredulous and Ayric could not blame him.

Ayric laughed loudly in answer.

"You would be amazed at how many people in the middle classes of Lannisport believes everything coming out the mouth of a septon. Especially when it confirms their prejudices against the Northerners or the Ironborn. When I was at the Academy, I knew three or four members of my class who based their strategies and tactics on the words of the last Faith sermon they had heard. To the point they sometimes quoted it to the instructor."

"Idiots." There was enough scorn in Preslan's voice to cut a tree with it.

"It's not that bad." Said Ayric. "The Targaryen version is that the Northern armies have reduced the size of their squads after the massive casualties they took in the Trident system. But if you look at any battle which happened before it, guess what you see?"

"The Northern squads were already of five men each?"

"We have a winner!" Said sarcastically Ayric.

"And the real one?"

"There are five specialties in the Northern organisation at squad's level. So naturally there is one man formed for each by squad. It's not new: it's always been that way since their last reorganisation shortly after Aegon the Conqueror forced their King to bend the knee during the Conquest."

"So they are saying what they want about the Northerners because people already hate them?"

"I'm not sure people hated the Northerners before this war. I didn't even know the Northern sector existed before I entered the Army Academy of Lannisport at 10, and I never met a Northerner before we arrived on Bridge's Edge.

But I suppose it's very tempting to believe that because the Northerners come from planets which are generally colder than the norm and some have large beards, they are barbarians."

"They should go in the under-cities of Lannisport sometimes. I know some places, Lieutenant, where there are gangs ready to kill you if you look at them badly. They also have large beards and very scary tattoos. Totally uncivilised. No need to go to the Northmen for that."

"Oh, I know it."

In fact, Ayric knew it very well. His final ranking at the graduating exam of his promotion had been in the last quartile, 9256th out of 1038th, which was sadly not a surprise. His parents were members of one of the Merchants Guild at the shipyards of Lannisport, albeit not one of the most important channelling thousand billions of dragons every year. He was neither a commoner, nor a "smallfolk" like Raff Preslan living in the worst residential towers or the even worse inhabitations under the surface of the world, but at the Academy he was the second son of some anonymous merchant. In other words, the lowest of the low that was authorised.

Given the corruption reigning at the Army Academy to put every major noble at the top and the other minor nobles, aristocrats, courtesans and wealthy merchant families just behind, the less advantaged students had no chance to climb in the rankings. Ayric was willing to bet the final sheet published on the last day had nothing in common with the test performance of every student. And the Army was notoriously the less corrupt branch of the Western armed forces. The Navy and the Fighter Squadrons were much much worse.

As a result, newly graduated Rock Land Officer Ayric Sarring had found himself assigned to 'maintain the peace in the agitated sectors of Lannisport' while others jumped the ranks. It was a dreadful job, as the 'worst sort' you found in the derelict buildings, towers and under the ground of the vast planetary metropolis were too often armed to the teeth... and all too willing to shoot the men wearing the red and gold of the Lannister troops. He would have been wearing the same insignia and doing the same thing two years later, if Lord Tywin Lannister had not decided suddenly to intervene in what the Bard and Information Guilds had trumpeted as 'the Usurper's War' after the Battle in the Trident System.

Suddenly, volunteers officers to go to the frontlines had been in high demand, and Ayric had been bombarded from Rock Land Officer to Lion Land Officer in two standard weeks under the condition he demanded to join the newly created 3rd army of Lannisport. Thinking the risk was definitely less than a dangerous madman stabbed him in a dark park of his home planet, he had agreed and even been promoted again to Lieutenant 3rd class a standard month later.

Which explained why he was marching in the woods of a planet under enemy control. Sometimes, life was really not working like you wanted.

"How long do you think the reinforcements will take to arrive?" Asked Preslan, breaking the morose thoughts of Ayric.

"A month to a month and a half, I think." Truthfully, Ayric was unable to make a more accurate estimation. It depended of course how many warships of their fleet had escaped. The explosions they had seen in the star had indicated a massive engagement with a lot of losses. "We will have to hold until then."

"We will have to reach a city and steal their food stocks, Lieutenant. What we have and we took from these Northerners is enough for fifteen days, maybe a bit more."

"True. But that's why I have you with me, right, Sergeant?"

"I don't know what you're implying, Lieutenant." Said Raff in a sentence sounding too virtuous to be honest.

"Really? It wasn't you the others nicknamed 'Black Market' or 'the Pirate' aboard our transport?"

"Totally unfounded accusations, Lieutenant. You know of how the other troopers and spacemen are jealous of my talents."

Ayric could stop himself to snort at that. Unlike the common trooper, his rank was high enough to see the file of Raff Preslan, although not the confidential files which went with the name. What had been available to his eyes had been largely enough to make him interested. Very interested.

Raff Preslan had volunteered to serve in the Western Army at the age of sixteen in 269AAC. What had he been doing before that, Ayric didn't know, the files were only accessible to someone of Major rank and higher. His imagination, the sergeant ability in card games, playing with knives and the heavy accent of the Lannisport worst quarters had let him draw certain conclusions, though. Some of them downright unpleasant.

After having joined the Lannister regular army, Raff Preslan had been described a particular resourceful trooper, but one which was hardly paying attention to the rules, the doctrine or the respect noble officers felt they were due. The now-Sergeant had cumulated a record number of demerits and blames, despite serving with distinction in assault against Ironborn pirate bases and during the Defiance of Duskendale where his squad had taken a Darklyn installation in the outer system by itself.

With this kind of performance and the five medals for valour which went with it, Preslan could have been largely a Warrant officer. Maybe more.

But his lack of discipline and the dirty rumours which indicated his participation in providing anything to his fellow troopers and non-commissioned officers no matter the legality had stalled his career. Only the ongoing war had possibly, no certainly, saved Raff Preslan from a not so honourable dismissal from the service.

"I'm sure." Said Ayric in an unconvinced voice. "But we still have to reach Walder the City. What few maps we've been given makes clear it's the only major town in the vicinity."

"It's still more than fifty kilometres away, Lieutenant. And by the way, who in hell had the brilliant idea to name a town Walder the City?"

"The same imbecile who ruled the planet, of course. Lord Walder Frey himself."

"Would like to give him my way of thinking, Lieutenant. He and his nobles really sucked at building anything correct here."

"Afraid, it's not possible. The Northerners put their hands on him before us."

"Why it's always the other side that has the fun?"

 **The Defeated Admiral II, 29.06.283AAC, Binary Twins System**

The light was blinding when they let him go out his cell. Two Northern soldiers in their grey battle-armour had dragged him out of the place he had been imprisoned, before giving him a shower, new clothes and more food than he had seen in all those days of detention.

Hopefully not the last meal of a condemned man.

After this, he had been handcuffed and forced to walk in the series of corridors where every spaceman or trooper he met was looking at him with curious, amused or disdainful expressions. Internally, Admiral of the Lions Loren Lannister raged and seethed. From the moment he had been captured in the broken wreck of the _Proud Lion_ , these Northern barbarians had refused to show him the proper respect due to someone of his rank! This was intolerable! He was not a smallfolk or a commoner, whose only value was to charge and die unnamed on the ground. He was a Lannister of Lannisport, he was from the highest ranks of his planet nobility and his word was worth billions of dragons and could muster millions of men! Who did the Northmen think they were, treating him like a common peasant?

He was at this state of his recriminations when they made him enter on the flag bridge. Without being aware of it, he stopped his walk. The bridge of this warship had nothing in common of any Lannister or Western warship he had ever seen.

The rules of the Western navy had always conceived the bridge to be built in a rectangle-like manner, with the armament officers on the left and the rest of the ship sections on the right, with the exception of the astrogation section on the front.

The admiral and his staff had their own posts, in the centre of the bridge, elevated by a series of stairs in order to have a view of everyone working there and ensuring everyone did properly their job. It was the natural order things, according to Loren Lannister. The admiral had a full tactical display in front of him to evaluate the course of the battle, give orders and make sure they were followed. It also dismissed the possibility of being disturbed by some trivial things or another by a pesky subordinate: if someone of his staff wanted to talk to him, he had to mount to his platform in full view of everyone on the bridge. Usually, his post delivered a large view of the stars surrounding his space command, giving him a supreme importance every time they crossed the stars to deal with insurgents and other enemies.

The Northern bridge he saw now could not have been more different. First of all, it was small! About a third or a quarter of Loren's bridge on the _Proud Lion_. There were also relatively few crewmen, present, and judging by the relative few seats in the room, it was not because the barbarians had suffered any casualties. Loren glanced at one side which had to be the tactical section, and found himself wondering how in Hell the Northmen could do their work with less than a half a dozen officers.

Secondly, the bridge was not rectangle-like but more shaping like a rotunda. There were two entrances to enter it, one of which Loren was blocking by his presence right now, but these were the only gaps. All the sections of the ship were represented on the walls of this circle, with the full tactical display in the middle of the room where the main officers had their seats. There was no stairs and higher work posts to elevate the superior officers, no bay to watch the stars. There were some pictures flashing on the ceiling randomly of star novae and other galaxy-wide phenomena but the rest of the room was metallic, cold and simple.

Thirdly, it was extremely noisy. Lannister doctrine demanded complete silence for those being too junior to matter in the command of a warship or a fleet, with whispers and low voices being authorised if the situation justified it. But here, every person, no matter the rank was speaking clearly to one of his neighbours without fearing the wrath of his admiral or superior officer. Madness, in Loren's opinion.

Of course that led to his fourth point, which was by far the worst. On this bridge, working amongst the men of the Northern fleet were women! Women in uniform! Their clothes were similar to their male counterparts, but the long hair and their stature made no attempt to hide their gender. Loren didn't even try to hide the disgust on his face the very idea this inspired in him. The Lannister armed forces had a strict order forbidding any woman to serve in the military and this was a policy which Loren agreed with completely. Women were far too sensitive and too weak to be allowed to take part in decisions making the difference for millions in time of war. A woman's place was at home, ensuring the proprieties of their husband were well-kept and the children correctly raised while he was away earning billions and leaving his mark on the Westerosi stars. The last woman to defy this rule and tradition in the Western sector had been Ellyn Reyne, the so-called Red Lioness. After Lord Tywin Lannister had justly annihilated her and the rest of her traitorous family in 261AAC, the rest of the Western sector had understood the message and no women had been authorised to worm their way on a military spaceship again.

Judging however by the tall woman with long brown hair and dark eyes in front him wearing the insignia of a Northern Captain, the barbarians had never understood or thought to adopt the same policy for their warships. A part of Loren gloated internally, as it proved beyond doubt the Northern were as debauched and corrupted as the Dornish if they thought using women for their armies and fleets was a good idea. One other part of him, on the other hand, reminded him this fleet who accepted women aboard had crushed utterly the space forces under his command and made it looked easy.

"Admiral Loren Lannister?" The woman asked in a bored voice.

"Himself." Replied Loren, in his best martial tone, trying to remind exactly the woman who was in front of him. As a little part of her left mouth lifted into a sneer, he knew he had not impressed her.

"My name is Elvira Dread, Admiral Bolton's chief of staff." She glanced at the two troopers behind him. "He's late. The Admiral won't be pleased." Was it Loren's imagination, or the two men dissimulated behind their grey battle-armours froze for a second and the joints of their articulations tightened.

"Apologies, Captain." Growled one of the two grunts. "The prisoner took longer than we thought to be made presentable."

"Your funeral." Pointed the woman in a cold smile. "You're lucky Lord Bolton is in a good mood today."

She then burned back her attention to Loren himself. "Follow me, Admiral."

To his great surprise, Captain Dread didn't immediately walk towards the tactical display where Loren had supposed sat Roose Bolton. Instead she crossed the bridge and left by the other entrance at a fast pace, forcing Loren and his two guards to accelerate to not be left behind. They rapidly came in a well-lighted corridor and their progression continued for a few minutes.

In his thoughts, Loren passed this time wondering if he had not been wrong. If Roose Bolton had not been there, then maybe it had not been the bridge of his ship of the line after all. Nothing excused the presence of women on warships, but maybe the Northern Admiral had truly been ignorant of the odious behaviour of his troops towards him. Maybe the Northern nobles were civilised enough to be reasonable.

His thoughts came to a halt as the woman in uniform stopped before a door where two other men in battle-armour mounted guard.

"Captain Elvira Dread, escorting Prisoner Loren Lannister." Said the Northern woman. "I'm expected."

One of the troopers nodded, before pushing a button which lightened the part of the corridor his guide and Loren himself were waiting in a red colour. After three or four seconds, the colour turned to green.

"Identification confirmed." Blared a metallic voice. "You can enter."

Loren scoffed at this display of paranoia. He heard some rumours about certain lords were always fearful to be murdered by their own crew or by assassins waiting in the shadows, but Lord Roose Bolton was putting to shame. An advanced monitoring system in front of his quarters, really?

Entering the room, he saw his initial assumption had been wrong: these were not the Admiral's quarters but rather a simple conference room, which was near-empty at the moment. There was only one man present, standing and presenting his back to them as he studied a tactical display of the Twins Binary System.

"You're late." The man said in a cold, toneless voice.

Captain Dread offered no apologies and didn't even seem troubled by the emotionless tone of her superior.

"Prisoner Loren Lannister is here, Admiral."

"And not a second too early." Said Roose Bolton in a curious soft, low voice, abandoning his activity to turn and look at them.

Inwardly, Loren Lannister froze at the sight of the Lord of the Dreadfort System. He had met very dangerous men during his time at the Rock Naval Academy and his ascension in the Western navy, his supreme lord and distant cousin Tywin Lannister chief among them. Roose Bolton equalled them without much effort. Middle size, not very muscled, Roose Bolton was still presenting a fearsome appearance with his gaunt face and pale eyes. It was like the man's skin had never known the sun. His hair was dark, but not respecting the military fashion, rather stopping before it reached his shoulders. His uniform was the same grey of the Northern troops with the flayed man on a badge above the heart, though he wore a pale red cloak too and on his shoulders were the white three stars indicating the man was a Vice-Admiral in the Northern Navy.

"Admiral, thank you for agreeing to meet me."

"I doubt you are going to thank me after this meeting." Replied the Northern admiral in a low voice, his face showing nothing but there was a light of amusement in these pale eyes.

"What do you mean?" Asked Loren, not liking at all the start of this conversation. But it was not Roose Bolton who replied, it was the woman behind Loren.

"While the hostilities continue between us and the loyalists, the Northern High Command has communicated fifteen standard days ago a list of the prisoners, both army and navy we have in our custody by the intermediary of the Republic of Braavos."

Loren did not understand the problem. Yes, it was common policy to do this in any conflict ever fought, though the Princedom of Pentos or another Free System of the Essos Constellation was more commonly used to do such a thing rather than the Bastard Daughter of Valyria. Something like the Braavosi disliking dragonriders and their descendants.

"Naturally, Lord Eddard Stark refused all the prisoner exchanges proposed. Our confidence in the Iron Throne has been a bit shattered these last months." The voice of the Captain was literally dropping with sarcasm. "But Lord Tywin Lannister proposed back to ransom in his own name certain officers being in our custody. Your name being placed at the top of the list, Admiral."

Loren Lannister stayed speechless. After having lost his entire fleet in the space battle around Bridge's Edge orbit, there were a multitude of reasons why his cousin, the uncontested master of Casterly Rock, would want him back so soon in his presence. None of them were good.

"Sending me back to my liege lord just because you want me to die will not change the course of this war, Admiral." Said Loren Lannister, looking directly in the pale, unfeeling eyes of Roose Bolton. It would have been better if he could stop his voice from shaking. "I may be one of the highest ranked naval commander of the Western Sector, but there are others who will take my place in due time. And once the combined might of the Reach, Western and Royal Sectors unite and launch their grand offensive, your pitiful rebellion will be crushed in fire and blood."

"You raise an excellent point, Admiral." Said Roose Bolton always in this low and frigid tone, giving a nod to Loren. "Alas, with the dreadful losses the Royal Fleet took at the Trident, your space forces are sixty ships of the line short, with at least twenty more capital ships in reparation. The moment of your grand offensive, as you put it, will not begin until two or three standard years from now. So, no, our 'miserable rebellion' is not in danger of dying any time soon."

Loren could not stop the shock from showing on his face. The casualties and losses from the Trident had been awfully vague, but nowhere in the range Bolton seemed to imply. Had the Crown Intelligence Agency managed to hide the magnitude of the fiasco that completely?

Thinking rapidly, he tried to convince himself the Northern admiral was lying to force him to panic. The problem was that there was no point to it. Loren was a war prisoner, and even if he was freed he would never be in a position to have an influence on the grand strategy of the war.

"Was the ransom that great for you to hand me over?" Asked bitterly Loren.

"It surely was!" Replied Elvira Dread. "And as it is prize money, Winterfell will not tax the Dreadfort detachment on it."

Seeing the pleased face of the Northern woman, Loren snapped.

"I hope one day, the Lannister fleet will use you and all your civilisations of barbarians for target practise when we bombard you from orbit! My men will avenge me!"

"Unlikely." Replied Roose Bolton in an unconcerned voice, so low Loren had to concentrate to be sure he was hearing correctly. "The majority of your men have by now surrendered. As for the survivors, I think they have other preoccupations than your fate."

 **The Lone Lieutenant III, 30.06.283AAC, Binary Twins System**

"What do you think killed these men, Lieutenant?"

"I don't know." Said Ayric in a very grim voice. "I really don't know." He repeated. "And I'm not sure I want to discover it."

In front of him and Preslan, was a true butchery. Not the kind of disgusting paste which was the result of an orbital strike or a massive artillery barrage, no. It was like a madman had amused himself to dissect men with a sort of macabre sense of humour. There were limbs, organs and blood everywhere.

"I count at least thirty men of our army, Sergeant." Ayric knew his voice was shivering, but he did not really care.

"How?"

"The number of helmets on the ground."

"Ah." Preslan good humour and sense of repartee was completely absent. "Lieutenant, how in hell did they manage to do this? Our men were in full battle-armour. No vibro-blade could have cut them so... so..."

"Expertly? No. And this was not the work of a Valyrian blade, either. Look at the wounds they have!"

"If it's okay with you, Lieutenant, I'd prefer not to go nearer."

Ayric could not blame the sergeant. The clearing in front of them was red with blood, with a lot of mutilated parts hanging everywhere.

"No weapon in our armoury can do... well, that. And if the Northmen had such a weapon, they didn't showed it in the skirmishes we had against them."

In the few weeks since the catastrophic landing on Bridge's Edge, Ayric had learnt to fear the formidable skill and tenacity of the Bolton infantry. Not to mention their sense of cruelty when they wanted to retaliate against the Lannister forces when they took particularly badly the death of one of their comrades. Finding Lannister soldiers tortured and hanged at the trees of this cursed forest had become sadly common happenstance. But at no moment, the Northerners had come near this level of atrocity.

Walking around the site of the massacre, it was Raff Preslan who noticed first the bloody trail.

"Looks like somebody tried to run, Lieutenant."

"Apparently. Though he looked to be already badly wounded. You do not bleed like that with just a scratch." Ayric frowned. "The trace looks like it's going in the direction of this huge tree in the distance."

"Do we follow the streak, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I don't really care who or what killed these men, but we're going to teach him a lesson. You don't massacre soldiers of Lannisport like that without paying the price."

"Not to say you aren't right, Lieutenant, but there's only one hour or so of sunlight. It's not bloody likely we will catch up with the monster which did this before the night.

"You're right." Ayric conceded. "But we're going to try."

Racing though the trees and the clearing, the two survivors of the 201665th squad did not take long to find the owner of the blood colouring the trail.

The corpse was leant back against one of the greatest trees Ayric had ever seen. His face was a figure where fear was present. The rest of his body had been torn apart. On its shoulders, the gold insignia identified him as a Warrant officer class 2.

"He has his rifle and his side arm at his feet, Lieutenant. Discharged. Whatever attacked him, he missed it or it didn't fear against laser fire."

"What bothers me is that he managed to escape from the clearing to this tree." Replied Ayric. "It's always possible he managed to slow down his enemy by rifle fire, I suppose, but he was badly injured. The thing managed to kill thirty Lannister troopers, so one more shouldn't have been a big deal."

"I think I know the answer." Replied Raff Preslan.

"And it is?"

"It was playing with his prey." Said simply the Sergeant.

Ayric opened his mouth to tell his subordinate to stop saying such absurdities, then thought better of it. The explanation was sadly all too likely true. The wounded Western non-commissioned officer had been pursued by an implacable predator. But had it been a human one or something else?

"Anyway it doesn't matter. The night is beginning to fall, and we need to find a place to camp. Without a trail we have nothing to..."

Ayric stopped talking as a man in grey battle-armour, emerged from the woods on his right.

"This is only the beginning..." rasped the Northern soldier.

"Lay down your weapons! Immediately!" Shouted Raff Preslan.

But the man looked like he had not hear the Sergeant injunctions.

Raising their laser rifles, both Lannister troopers began to fire at will at their enemy. To Ayric's stupefaction, it had no effect. The Bolton trooper was holding a sort of weird vibro-blade, with which he parried perfectly each laser shot.

"Our God has whispered amongst the stars..."

As he marched towards them, Ayric knew there was definitely something terribly wrong with the Northerner. The grey battle-armour was a wreck, and where the gaps in the armour could be seen, fatal wounds were clearly visible on his skin, with dried blood. The man was... the man was dead! And his eyes... through his destroyed protection visor his eyes were a flashing blue with no iris!

"He has announced his return..."

"Sergeant, take your vibro-sword and let's kill that thing!"

Ayric and Raff Preslan unsheathed the blades they had 'borrowed' to the Northern soldiers and charged to slice down the dead abomination. But with a terrifying agility, the creature with the livid blue eyes dodged in an impossible move and counter-attacked, unleashing a series of expert swordsman moves and forcing both Lannister soldiers on the defensive.

"He has spoken of extinction. The end of all life..."

In an attempt to catch his opponent off-balance, Ayric tried a powerful strike targeting the stomach of his opponent while Preslan continued to deliver massive blows, but the thing which was definitely not human anymore jumped impossibly high before landing right on its feet three meters away without looking the least bothered.

"This is only the beginning..."

"No." Shouted Ayric. "This is your end!"

In the same move, both he and Preslan launched three plasma grenades they had recuperated on the bodies of dead Lannister soldiers bodies in these last days.

Once the initial shockwave was passed, they charged again, only to be met by the vibro-blade of the monster. But this time the damage had been considerable. What had been a dead man was now missing his left leg, part of his left arm and there was no more armour.

The blade of their enemy however, looked perfectly intact and was now emanating a powerful cold and illuminated the battle with small blue lightning.

 _This is the thing he used to break through the battle-armour of the corpses we found earlier_ , thought Ayric. _We have to end this fight now_!

Fortunately, losing part of its body had seriously affected the reflexes of their opponent. Preslan was the first to find a gap in its guard, detaching a part of the armour on his stomach. Then Ayric managed in a complicated feint which had earned him several good points at the Academy to cut his right leg.

The corpse of the possessed Northman fell.

Preslan immediately separated the right arm and the terrible cold blade from the main body, sending it away from the dead's grasp.

"This is useless..." Rasped the being, which despite being dead seemed perfectly able to talk." Our victory is already certain..."

"Please do us a favour!" Snarled Ayric.

"Our God is coming..."

"Die!" Ayric activated two plasma grenades and forced them down in the mouth of his undead enemy.

He and Preslan ran away, although they were still thrown away by the breath of the explosion.

Turning their heads behind them, only a crater remained where their opponent had been.

"Sergeant?"

"Yes, Lieutenant?

"Let's get the hell out of here. I don't know if we managed to kill that thing, but we have no more grenades to throw at it."

"I think we did, Lieutenant."

"And why is that Sergeant?"

"The tree is smiling."

Turning to see the massive tree where the Lannister soldier had been killed, Ayric saw that Preslan wasn't kidding: there was indeed a massive carved face on the trunk of the tree, with red sap giving the illusion of red eyes where it had lingered. And it was smiling.

As a few red leaves fell from the white wood, Ayric realised the species this tree belonged to. He had never seen one himself, though their description was narrated in countless videos and recordings made by the documentaries proudly celebrating the victories of the Andals in the Westerosi stars.

"It's a weirwood, Sergeant. The First Men worshipped their gods here in ancient times."

"And did their gods answer?"

"I don't know." Admitted Ayric. "But I hope they did. This thing we just fought was dead, Sergeant. If more things like him come, a bit of divine aid would not be unwelcome."

Raising his head up to the sky, Ayric Sarring contemplated the stars beginning to lighten as the night fell on Bridge's Edge. For the first time in his life, their magnificent sight failed to raise his spirits.

 _The Twins Campaign of 283AAC, codename Operation Lightning Lion, was undoubtedly the worst disaster suffered by the Western Sector military forces in decades. While the analysts of House Targaryen and House Lannister classified all numbers, reports and the accurate information under the highest security seals they had, the Northern rebels were under no such obligation and the well-known Braavosi military expert Amando Tarel published in 21.02.292AAC his famous work_ _The Flayed Lion_ _, which gave even more precise numbers than the one given by Lord Roose Bolton and his subordinates._

 _Admiral of the Lions Loren Lannister had entered the Twins Binary System on 04.06.283AAC with an impressive fleet of four Ship of the Lines, two Armoured Cruisers, twelve Battlecruisers, twenty-four Heavy Cruisers, fifteen Light cruisers, fifty Scout Cruisers, two Fleet Carriers, six Light Carriers, twenty Escort carriers and fifty-six transports and supply ships. His fleet had a total of 158 847 men, the two field armies he brought with him (3rd Lannisport Army and 5th Lannisport Army) were adding 221 188 men to the total._

 _The major space and ground battle, fought between 6.6.283AAC and 7.6.283AAC, cost the Lannister Third Fleet all is hulls save two heavy cruisers which managed to escape with critical damage in an emergency jump the system of Twin A. The 5th Lannisport Army outright surrendered after having taken crippling losses. The 3rd Lannisport Army simply disintegrated. In two standard days, the Western Sector forces lost 192 145 men dead. 164 719 men, 41% of them heavily injured, surrendered to the forces of the Dreadfort and were interned on Bridge's Crown, the inhabitable planet orbiting around the sun of Twin B, until the end of the Usurper's War._

 _The Northern fleet lost two heavy cruisers, three light cruisers, seven scout cruisers, two minesweepers and twenty-seven space-fighters. Between the space and land forces, Lord Roose Bolton lost 13 577 of his men, with more than three thousand wounded which would never come back into military service._

 _Some Lannister troopers would continue the fight in the wilderness of Bridge's Edge, ambushing Bolton patrols until the end of the conflict. Amongst them was one Lieutenant 3rd class Ayric Sarring. But for all intent and purposes, the resistance was inconsequential for the Bolton regulars garrisoning the planet._

 _While these casualties were still largely minor compared to the legendary battle of the Trident System, the disastrous conclusion of the battle fought in the Twins System was a reverse no less important in the grand strategic view. The Western forces had bypassed too many fortified systems in the River Sector to maintain the speed of their offensive: until Bridge's Edge it had seem to pay off. But with the destruction of Third Fleet, many of the River fleet remnants reappeared to launch raids on the loyalists' convoys and planets, while the citadel worlds of Riverrun and Raventree Hall were now proving thorns in the loyalist flanks._

 _The war which had been officially proclaimed as 'over' and 'won' by King's Landing officials when my father Lord Randyll Tarly and the Usurper Robert Baratheon killed each other at the Trident, was in reality taking a far less palatable conclusion._

 _The Northern and Vale lords refused to negotiate with the Iron throne as long as Aerys II was in power. And in that case, the war could continue to ravage hundreds of worlds for years. Ultimately, it didn't happen. But when I see what happened afterwards, sometimes I wonder if another outcome would not have been preferable._

 _As for Admiral of the Lions Loren Lannister, he was court-martialled on 16.03.284AAC and judged guilty of all the nineteen chiefs of accusations he was accused of. The commander of Third Fleet was executed on 22.03.284ACC at the Casterly Rock Army Headquarters by decapitation. With his death, he became the last and most famous casualty of Operation Lightning Lion._


	2. Ashes of the Trident (Prologue 2)

**Prologue 2**

 **Ashes of the Trident**

 **Elia Martell I, 10.07.283AAC, King's Landing System**

Ten years ago on a visit in the Red Dunes system, her brother Oberyn had happily declared the Dornish had mastered during centuries at least eight out of ten of the most exquisite and exotic ways to execute someone. With years of experience and study as a master of poisons added to the Dornish long and infamous history in assassinations, it was entirely possible Oberyn had been right.

But if her home Stellar Sector was known to kill their enemies and their criminals in exotic ways most of the other Sectors were unable to imagine, House Targaryen of King's Landing had established from time to time the cruellest and weirdest methods to torture their criminals. It had begun with Maegor I, the justly called 'the Cruel'. It continued a couple of centuries later under his descendant the 'Mad King', Aerys II.

If anyone in the audience wished to contest it, the man burning in the green flames at the centre of the arena was a strong point arguing for the madness of the sovereign. The Princess of Dorne frowned in disgust. The man named Jon Clearwater, minor landed knight in the Bywater system, had been totally corrupt and willing to divert huge sums in his pockets, but he didn't deserve to be carbonised by wildfire. Nobody did. Else the rest of the King's Landing and the Crown Sector administration would have joined him on this pyre a long time ago.

That said, no one in the assembly of lords, ladies and other invitees in the royal lodge of the Coliseum had dared open his mouth in protestation. Instincts of preservation, perhaps. With King Aerys II Targaryen so close and his close of circle of Alchemists surrounding him, no one wanted to irritate the King or give Lord Rossart an excuse.

Looking one by one the various members of the Small Council left, it was easy to see those who had lost hope and those who conspired. Except two, all were doing their best to become the image of fawning sycophants. As for Lord Alliser Thorne, the loathed and hated Chief of the Secret Police, and Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers and Head of the Crown Intelligence Agency, they were stone-faced and condescending, showing disdain with their lips and their eyes to anyone having the temerity to look at them for more than a few seconds.

The screams of agony of Clearwater finally ceased in the arena. Of the knight, there was nothing worth watching anymore, just a column of green fire progressively dying out. The soldiers surrounding it did not rush towards it with fire-extinguishers. It was common knowledge wildfire was able to burn in the most impossible conditions, and water, chemical products, foam had one by one proved to be useless against it in its infamous history of field experiments.

"AND NOW..."Shouted the speaker of the Coliseum."THE GLADIATORS ARE SOON GOING TO ENTER THE ARENA!"

Three quarters of a million Kingslanders, their former silence and reserve instantly forgotten, shouted and screamed their joy in acclamations so loud the orbital stations over the planet should be able to hear them. The marble and stone stands were trampled and jumped upon, drinks and acclamations were pronounced all over this huge human crowd.

Elia tried not to greet her teeth, but the Princess of Dorne failed in her attempt. _How typical of the smallfolk_ , she thought. One second Aerys was forcing them to witness the agony of a man, the second after they were cheering for the bloody spectacle to come.

 _What a band of mindless sheep._

It was perhaps a bit dishonest to blame the smallfolk, with every channels of holovision censored and owned by the Targaryen propagandists. On the other hand, Elia Martell had realised long ago that honesty in King's Landing was nothing but a dead and smelly body waiting for its eventual burial. Everyone had an agenda on this cursed planet, and the will to betray the opponents blocking the way to said goal. Smallfolks and nobles were much the same, whether they shared the same proud ancestries and the wealth or not.

"This is going to be a true and grandiose spectacle..." Cackled in the most absurd evil manner the king, looking like some deranged psychopath. As the gladiator games had been reinstated on his express orders and the Coliseum's primary function of a theatre and sports stadium been removed, it was obvious Aerys was feeling excitation at the soon-to-come nauseating spectacle.

"Which is against every tenet of the Faith of Seven!" Proclaimed loudly a voice to Elia's right. The Princess turned her head and was greeted by the sight of the High Septon arriving in the royal lodge.

Aerys II Targaryen, hirsute appearance including but not limited to, long nails, dishevelled hair and yellowish teeth, laughed like a hyena.

"Ah, your Holiness." Barked the Dragon monarch. "I see you received your invitation."

The leader of the Faith emitted a curt nod, but made no other sign of allegiance.

Compared to the Targaryen sovereign, the contrast was as clear as the difference between day and night. White and perfectly neat robes, a nice trimmed beard, a golden sceptre and the crystal tiara upon his head, the High Septon was the true image of a religious dignitary. But it was his dark brown eyes that were the most interesting, showing something close to anger and fury. The invitation sent by the mad dragon king had certainly not been neither polite nor friendly.

Shocking sign, the High Septon was also accompanied by two soldiers in rainbow colours and heavy battle armours, a violation if there ever was one of Aerys rules that no soldier save the Kingsguard and the Alchemists was to be armoured and carry weapons in his presence. Because the huge laser rifles in the hands of the Septon's bodyguard did not look like fakes. The Princess of Dorne saw the young Ser Jaime Lannister manifestly grow tense and ready to draw his personal vibro-blade. The Alchemists ceased their silence and small green sparks appeared near the mysterious machines they had brought here. A sign of the King ordered them to lower their guard.

Nonetheless, it was worrying. The predecessor of this High Septon would never have dared provoking Aerys II face to face in a century. Unfortunately for him, the Pudding One, as his Holiness had been called, had received a horrible end at the hands of the Alchemists after a few private comments made following the Battle in the Trident System.

Unsurprisingly, the Faith-or at least its upper hierarchy- had been enraged beyond belief, and elected one of their most radical members to signify their profound displeasure. This new High Septon was the result. He had soon been nicknamed the Vocal One, and from the highest lord to the lowest beggar, seventeen billions of men, women and children regarded him as something between a madman and a saint. It took certain guts to naysay the pyromaniac on the throne. It took even more courage to form a 'Faith Guard' of some five hundred members.

It was not the Faith Militant which had been formally disbanded during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, but it was the first and biggest step the Faith had made in rearmament in centuries.

Apparently the Priest had decided not to defy the king more today, and sat directly to Elia's left. Elia shivered, as the monster she was forced to call her father-in-law sent her a nasty glare, but nothing else followed. Maybe Aerys didn't want a religious war in top of all the other conflicts he had started?

"Now that everyone is here, let's begin!" Snarled King Aerys II.

A series of gongs sounded in the distance, and the atmosphere in the stadium grew even more frenetic. The gates of the arena opened in full, leaving every spectator see on his own eyes or by interposed screen the persons walking on the large and sandy surface.

First came the Provocatores, some three hundred in all, marching in a three columns formation. Their equipment had not varied from several thousand years ago when they made their debut in the arenas of Old Ghis and Valyria. The men wore the classic rectangular shield, the helmet with red feathers, the sandals, the breastplate and the short vibro-sword known as the gladius. Unlike their long disappeared predecessors, their weapons and armours were in various modern alloys and dura-steel, but that was the only difference. From an outside, they were the perfect heirs of the primitive legions in Essos fighting with spears and swords before humanity rose to the stars.

Traversing the arena, the gladiators formed a long line facing directly the royal lodge. It said something about the size of the arena that the men could maintain a safe distance between each other and their line did not even reach a third of the arena's width.

In one synchronised move, the professional killers drew their swords and raised them in a challenge millennia-old. The High Valyrian battlecry resonated in the air:

"HAIL TARGARYEN! THOSE WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE SALUTE YOU!"

On his throne, Aerys II answered by the traditional salute: placing his fist above his heart, then rising his right arm in the air like a general of the extinct Freehold. Sadly, this act was made more or less terrifying due to his nails and the scars on his skin inflicted by the blades of the Iron Throne, not glorious.

A trumpet sounded. That was all the signal needed the gladiators needed. Having dispersed in little groups all over the arena, the Provocatores charged and battled against each other. Elia viewed the spectacle with repulsion, but the spectators evidently did not share her opinion. The clamours mounting from the stands reserved to the smallfolks were destructive by their sheer intensity.

Soon, a gladiator with a skin so dark he was certainly Summer-born made the first fault. His opponent, a big brute with a large scar on his skull, did not hesitate and plunged his gladius straight in the left eye, a thrust powerful and cruel that made the extremity of the blade emerged on the other side. The black gladiator screamed in agony, before falling lifeless on the ground.

The thousands of men and women cheered in ecstasy. First blood had been spilt.

It did not get any better. The winner of this bloody contest was just rising his hands to celebrate his victory that two gladiators behind him, having seen the ease of this slaughter, decided to get rid of a potential competitor. Two gladii flew through the hair and the first gladiator perished, two swords in his back.

The arena became a spectacle of unlimited violence. And to make sure nobody missed any deaths and impressive sequences, the different screens installed in the high structure of the Coliseum regaled the spectators of murder and free acts of torture. One Provocator beating his opponent with his own detached arms. A sadist cutting bit by bit his victim, beginning with the legs and moving upwards.

This detachment allowed Elia to nonetheless realise something interesting. By the insults and the war cry shouted by the gladiators, less than half were Westerosi. It looked like Aerys had had difficulty finding enough mad and crazy subjects to descend duel in this bloodbath, even in a megalopolis of several billion able bodies.

And then the opening round was over. Roughly fifty or sixty gladiators were catching their breath and lowering their weapons, disarming and putting an end to this opening act. That said, the number of deaths this small clash had produced was simply atrocious. Over two hundred men had left this world in less than half an hour.

In spite of this, Elia breathed in relief. While definitely not a stranger to violence, she had served in the Dornish army after all, this free bloodbath was not to her taste. Alas, with Aerys attitude towards her these days, it was possible her denunciation would encourage, not discourage, the pro-gladiator faction.

The moment of self-reassurance did not last longer than a half minute. The crowd was now more excited and bloodthirsty than ever. The deaths in the Provocatores had not calmed this folly, in fact it seemed to have magnified it. And Aerys was obviously shared their opinion, because under his command the trumpet sounded again, letting the great doors of the arena open for the second time.

This time the need for Provocatores was over. Aerys, because who else had planned this symphony of killing? Well, Aerys had decided the public needed to see flesh and the gladiators in all their infamous diversity. Retiarii were abundant, each carrying a trident and a net. Elia had heard from Oberyn, who of course had gone to several similar spectacles when he was gallivanting in the Essos Quadrant, that mastery of this gladiator fighting form was extremely difficult. Behind them followed the scissores, their equipment consisting in two vibro-blades looking effectively like scissors, thus the name. Scutarii, gladiators hiding behind a huge shield. Murmillones, the heavy muscle of the fighters, armed with a large sword and a heavy shield. The secutores, nominal adversaries of the retiarii, with a gladius in one hand and a rectangular shield on the other. They didn't have any defence beyond that however, making significant gains in speed compared to their Provocatores cousins. Velites, skirmishers with a javelin and a shield, completed the list.

There was nothing noble in this pack of criminals, war butchers and crazy killers. Elia was ready to bet a thousand dragons on the fact the best of the lot were regular soldiers having been discharged in disgrace from their home Sectors military forces.

All had various mad, happy or condescending expressions as they saluted King Aerys in the traditional manner, neatly organised into three massive lines. The King, a sinister expression on his hirsute face, saluted back.

And then the slaughter started anew on the already red-stained sand. The king and his organisers having never organised a gladiator fight of this magnitude, it was no surprise to Elia's that the arena became pretty much a free-for-all fight where every nasty trick, no matter how 'dishonourable', was authorised to murder and go on a rampage. Astapor, Meereen, Volantis and Yunkai were known to organise highly ritualised in their own arenas and beautiful spectacles. Aerys had skipped this part, and ordered a pure spectacle of slaughter.

Needless to say, the number of gladiators rapidly diminished after this infusion of barbarity. By scores and individualities, the gladiators fell one after the other. The nets missed their marks, letting the gladii tearing apart the unprotected torsos of the retiarii. Scissores lost their blades in the bodies of their victims, letting unseen attackers inflict lethal wounds while they had a part of their tactics disabled. Velites saw their spears broken, and found themselves armless the second after. The others warriors did not fare better. Whatever order a gladiator fight was supposed to have, with referees or whatever, there was clearly none at the moment. As such, having a trident or a shield was no guarantee of survival.

A trumpet sounded, and the guards in red and black armour of House Targaryen took position on the top of the wall encircling the arena, their laser and plasma rifles ready to fire. The gladiators alive understood the message. By small groups, the butchers avid of glory and blood laid down their weapons and ceased the fight.

But glancing at the hungry face of the mad monarch behind her, Elia was realist enough to know this butchery had not been enough to sate the monarch. The cheers of the nobles trying to convey their admiration went ignored. Frightening, when by the most minimal estimates there had been one thousand gladiators fighting for the pleasure of the public, and now less than one hundred breathed the polluted air of King's Landing.

"Abominable heresy..." Grumbled loudly the High Septon.

But his visage was not betraying the slightest hint of wrath, as if the man was trying to get an answer of Aerys. It failed. The King laughed madly, then gave another sign to Rossart, his favourite executor since the whole madness had exploded in rebellion. The Alchemist bowed largely, and then left the huge lodge. In the arena, hundreds of auxiliaries were dragging the corpses of the gladiator battle out, while the men responsible for the Coliseum changed the bloody sand, inspected the state of the large wooden structure and the machinery underneath in case the spectacle had done some damage.

The lodge became unusually silent, with only sometimes Aerys cackling in the background and the Alchemists explaining to no one in particular how yes, their substance was the most exalting thing to fabricate and deliver on a non-expecting member of their own species. More than ever, Elia was glad she had not brought Rhaenys in presence of these monsters.

The arena was finally clear of all blood and human parts, and the great doors opened a third time in front of them, letting enter a much more circumspect group of men.

The reason for this prudence was quite obvious. Showing contusions and severe wounds, the group having appeared in this place of bleeding were no gladiators. A dozen had on them pale yellow battle-armours with black insignia falling onto disrepair. Most had on their back nothing but simple clothing, but their stance and their mannerisms betrayed their warrior past. A couple dispersed at the edge of the formation had spacesuits in the same shade of yellow, providing you could call them spacesuits. Pierced with holes, torn apart, so dirty Elia knew the odour had to be repulsing, these clothes had no chance to serve as a protection whatsoever in the cold and harsh environment of a spaceship or an orbital station.

It did not take many deductions to realise who these soldiers were. So far and despite everything Galactic Targaryen News broadcasted in the galaxy, the sole battle where large numbers of rebel troops had been taken prisoner was the battle fought in the Ashford System. Stoney Sept, Gulltown, Summerhall had all been decisive defeats. And at the Trident, the rebel fleets and ground forces had withdrawn in good order, due to the insane damage the initial thrust Lord Robert Baratheon had inflicted.

Still, there was an issue. According to real intelligence Elia had managed to be granted access by a few of her agents in the official Intelligence apparatus, Ashford had been a delaying action of the Baratheon fleet and a small army on the planet commanded personally by Robert Baratheon. The Usurper, as the Targaryen loyalists were pleased to nickname it, had been wounded by Lord Tarly but the losses in men had been in the low thousands for the Stormlords. Less than ten thousand men had begun their march towards captivity. So why had these prisoners of war disappeared from the official records, only less than one tenth of them to be transported here? And what did Aerys intend to do with them?

A little voice in Elia's head, the one of her darkest thoughts, screamed to her a defeated enemy had no rights and was to the complete mercy to the winner. But her heart tempered it, affirming that the war was not yet won, that tens of thousands Dornish and other loyalists were in the prisoner camps of the Northern and Vale military forces. And executing these men would make sure the realm would never heal from this civil war.

Elia knew this...but she didn't open her mouth to protest. Aerys face was looking like a man about to have an orgasm, further supported by his right hand going under his tunic and touching his genitals.

The gigantic doors, only visible point to enter and leave the arena, closed in a thunderous roar. Sensing the danger and the crowd baying for their blood, the Stormlanders formed an improvised circle, with the ones in the best shape on the outside, protecting the badly wounded comrades-in-arms. It was no less that Elia had expected for the loyal warriors of the Storm Sector...but Oberyn's sister had the sinking feeling the insane father of her insane husband had anticipated that.

A shrieking sound echoed in the greatest stadium of the Seven Stellar Sectors. The Stormlanders and the rest of the audience shivered. A portion of the ground opened up, unveiling the source of the terror. A large maw, with teeth surpassing any feline predator. A long tail, covered in sharp thorns. A sinuous body covered in black scales, close how to a young dragon developed at an early age. Elia had seen and heard enough of Oberyn to know the name of the extremely dangerous reptile in her view.

It was a shadowed-wing wyvern. Aerys, damn him to the Seven Hells, had bought one of the ultimate predators reigning over the dark jungles of Sothoryos. Half the size of a middle-aged dragon, the wyverns were a deadly danger, as this specie did not hesitate to feed itself on humans when the occasion presented itself. With their poisonous fangs, poisonous claws and a shadowy breath (also poisonous and paralysing), solid scales resisting to the dura-steel, the wyverns were basically a small dragon with poison to replace the dragonfire.

It went without saying that without a weapon, the Storm soldiers needed a miracle right now. Rossart and Aerys had not bothered arming them, sadists and monsters that they were.

The black wyvern shrieked, and seeing the elevator that had mounted it there had disappeared, charged the humans on the ground at a slow pace. Elia didn't understand why, until a focus on the nearest screen showed the paws of the animal had been heavily punctured by restraining devices, and the wings had received the same 'treatment'.

But slow pace for a wyvern was better than a good human runner. Half of its designated victims had not had the time to move when the wyvern arrived in range and launched its strike. The men sworn to House Baratheon were slaughtered. The wyvern did not even resort to its redoubtable breath, cutting and splitting them with its claws and fangs, before eating them one by one, bones, flesh and blood.

In this moment of gore, the veterans of the Storm Sector understood their salute resided in fleeing and executed a very hasty retreat on the periphery of the arena. Only to be gunned down by a concerto of laser fire from the Targaryen armsmen on top of the arena walls.

The only good point was that it was quick. Forced to choose between a slow death by the guns of the dragon dynasty and the rapid maw of the hungry wyvern, the Baratheon military men chose the monster sharing their predicament. Ten minutes later, there was a lake of blood in the arena, the wyvern was subdued by massive harpoons and military shields, and Aerys finally left his throne, aroused and pleased by the murders done in his name.

Certainly, his sister-wife was going to be raped this night. Poor Rhaella. Forced to marry an abomination and the Kingsguard let their sovereign rape her, decency and defence of innocent be damned.

Ser Jaime Lannister, the poor white knight limpidly nauseated of this butchery, was on his heels. Thirty Alchemists followed, and after that it was the turn of the court, lords and ladies, planetary and provincial, doing their best to convince themselves they had appreciated the spectacle.

Rapidly, there was only Elia, the High Septon and his bodyguards in the royal stands.

"It won't be long, now. Rhaegar is going to make his move."

"Ah." The religious man was not surprised in the least, or he was simply that good at hiding his surprise. "What do you want of me, your Highness?"

"Use your influence and your network. Rhaenys must arrive to Sunspear safe and sound."

"I see." Was it respect she heard in the voice of the Faith leader? "And yourself?"

"I am too monitored by Aerys cronies. I wouldn't make it one kilometre away from the Red Keep before being blown to pieces."

"Surely your husband wouldn't risk the life of his wife and his only daughter."

"Your Holiness, if I have learnt something these last months, it is that Rhaegar-" the name was venomously spoken since the bastard had kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark, "- does not care about anyone save himself and his ridiculous prophecies."

"I see. And Aegon?"

"I have been forbidden to see him since the Trident. My son...is lost to me. I do not even know if he is in the Red Keep."

The High Septon looked deeply chagrined by these news.

"I see." The holy man repeated. "I am sorry. I will take care of your daughter and I ensure you this adorable child will be in the arms of her uncle, safe and sound."

"Thank you, your Holiness."

"Think nothing of it. I am simply doing my duties as a Priest of the Seven-Who-Are-One. The real question is what do you intend to do when Rhaegar's soldiers will launch their coup?"

"The officers of the Gold Fists are honestly utterly defenceless against bribery." Said Elia enigmatically. Granted their conversation was jammed by a priceless Myrish portable technology, but there was no need to take a risk. "I have acquired some interesting weapons, and should my fears be realised, I won't go down alone..."

"Like a descendant of Nymeria?"

"Rhaegar forgot the words of my House." Whispered the Princess. "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken."

 **Lord Wyman Manderly, 12.07.283AAC, Crossroads System**

It was a magnificent spectacle.

The white sun, named by the humans Crossstars due to the central position of this system in the River Sector, lightened of a thousand fires the planet below, revealing in all their glory the white clouds, the brown and green earth, and the blue of the seas and oceans. With the darkness of the void surrounding it and the luminescent rainbow of colours striking the atmosphere before dissipating, it was even more glorious.

Truly, a spectacle worthy to be commemorated on a painting or a tapestry. His children and future grandchildren would no doubt tease him mercilessly for years to come, but better remember this moment of plenitude. There were so few of them as time passed and Wyman aged.

Not that what the Lord of White Harbour saw was the real thing, of course. It was only a video filmed by the numerous detectors of the _Faithful Merman_ , and transmitted on the screen in front of his comfortable seat on the bridge. Northern military doctrine, unlike certain other Sector navies, had long dictated a certain prudence. Better see the stars, the asteroids and the planets only by a technologic intermediary, had reasoned the Northerners in charge of designing the ship. Burying the bridge of a warship under uncountable layers of durasteel plate and anti-explosion doors was a minor drawback to contemplate the universe's beauty, but it stopped laser, plasma and missiles from claiming the lives of your entire leadership in the first volleys of a space battle.

It had not been a problem in the Crossroads System this time, of course. The Lannister squadron had immediately withdrawn once its captains had seen the Northern navy jump into the system. With nothing bigger than a heavy cruiser, the Westerners had obviously not felt being outnumbered with a ratio of fifty to one were good odds to win a battle. The Western ground force, a couple of brigades mustered by House Myatt, had decided not to verify the old saying that the force which holds the orbital holds the planet, and surrendered as soon as the final outcome was clear.

The planet of Crossrifts was back in the hands of the hands of the Rebellion with no losses. Hopefully for good this time. Following the defeat in the nearby Trident system, it had been abandoned in all haste. Too many ships damaged, in dire need of repairs. Too many officers wounded or dead. The sudden arrival of the Lannister forces on the frontlines had forced the North and the Vale sector navies to retreat back to their own realms and rearm, waiting for an opportunity to counter-attack. An opportunity the arrogant Admiral of the Lions Loren Lannister had enthusiastically provided.

"My lord."

Wyman diverted his attention from the screen to see Ser Bartimus Whiteliege respectfully stand to attention in front of his current seat.

"Lord Stark's compliments, and a summon for all the admirals and generals to attend his flagship at dinner's hour, my lord."

"Convey my regrets to Lord Stark I will not be attend the meeting in person. I will be present by holo-com to participate in the military decisions of course, but my injuries force me to avoid any strenuous activity or be subjected to hazardous environment conditions. "

And space shuttles to travel from a warship to another, with their insane speed-addict pilots, definitely entered the latter category.

"By your orders, my lord." Nodded Ser Bartimus, Captain in the Northern Army. "I will convey your regrets to the High Marshal." The Northerner turned around and moved towards the communications section.

"Good man..." Whispered Admiral Manderly, as a small amount of pain echoed in his ribs.

Ser Bartimus was certainly worthy of a place on the Bridge's of the _Merman._ Despite having been recently wounded, the Ramsgate-born Northerner managed a fantastic amount of paperwork to get done every day. It had not stopped certain Lords of the Vale Sector after the Trident to denigrate him, the precious aristocrats having taken offense of a 'smallfolk' been able to walk in their presence without scrapping their shoes.

In Wyman's opinion, these lords could go to the Seven Hells for all he cared. Bartimus, simple Sergeant, had charged in the melee and saved him from the deadly vibro-spear strike of Lord Alester Florent when all the Manderly sworn swords had been dying or unable to come in time to his rescue. Once the medical teams had operated him and the Lord of White Harbor had regained consciousness, Bartimus had been knighted for his deed.

But in the Northern sector knighthood didn't earn you more than the respect of your peers, and sometimes less for those worshipping the Old Gods. So Wyman had promoted of his own initiative Bartimus to the rank of Army Captain, made him his army liaison on the _Faithful Merman_ and paid of his own pockets the prostheses for the leg and the eye the brave forties-year old veteran had lost to save a man who was not even his liege lord.

 _It's thanks to this kind of men the North is as strong as he is today_ , thought the Master of White Harbor _. I might as well recognise the talents while I'm at it._

In the Northern Sector, powerful local Master Houses had sometimes risen on their own merits from the ranks of the common men, and the nobility had lengthy records and memories to force them to remember yesterday's subordinate could be tomorrow's liege. 'The North remembers' was the old adage of the First Men, and the rebellion they were fighting would not change millennia of practise.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the Northern Sector was practically the only one to have such traditions of meritocracy, the other notable Westerosi exception being Dorne. Nevertheless, the North remained far as tolerant, egalitarian and libertarian as the Republic of Braavos, the model in this domain.

Coming back to the subject of the summon, the injuries of Wyman would not have prevented his transfer to the flagship of the Northern fleet, but the lovely nurses serving as his medical staff would have sedated him instantly for daring disregard their recommendations. Not to mention Wyman required a very large shuttle for his spatial moves, being significantly larger than the rest of the spacemen aboard the _Merman_ , and that entering his doctors plus himself plus their equipments would have been extremely impressive.

A shame. The meals prepared by his liege's cooks could have tempted a saint. Ah, well. There would be other occasions, Wyman supposed. A small laugh escaped his lips, but the shift in his position on the large seat awoke the pain again.

 _But damn you Florent. The ribs, the arm and the leg?_

It was perhaps unjust to Lord Alester Florent. The Reach lord had planned an impressive boarding on the Manderly flagship, the eight hundred years-old arch _Merman's Exile_. The fighting had raged in the corridors and the vast bays, causing thousands of casualties. It was only when a strike force led by Lord Eddard Stark himself had come back in orbit that the outcome had been decided. The Lord Paramount of the North had taken the Florent banners in the back, and annihilated them to a man, decapitating Lord Alester of a single circular strike of the Valyrian sword Ice. The _Merman's Exile_ had survived, although it would not leave the dockyards of White Harbor before the end of the year.

Redirecting his attention to his screen, the Lord of White Harbour manually changed the perspective, revealing a far less peaceful panorama.

Around the planet Wyman was observing a moment ago, was orbiting a massive war fleet.

The Northern Sector's fleet. Or rather, the part of the fleet assigned to Operation _Trident Ashes_.

One flagship, the antique battleship _Ice_ , still bigger than the modern ships of the line despite having been built hundreds of years ago when House Stark still wore on their heads the Crown of Winter.

Seven ships of the line. Twenty-two armoured cruisers. Thirty battlecruisers. Fifty heavy cruisers. One hundred and fifty plus for the light and scout cruisers. Sixty frigates. Eight light carriers.

And out of his sight, they were also the warships of Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton on the other side of the Green Rift, operating from the Oldstones and Vypren Systems.

By anybody impartial assessment, a phenomenal concentration of firepower, able to sterilise a planet in mere hours should the order be given.

This was impressive, but alas worrying too. This fleet was a far cry from the fifteen ships of the line and hundreds of escorts having passed the System of Moat Cailin months ago, in order to avenge the unprovoked execution of Lord Rickard Stark and his Heir. Too many were still in the hands of the dockworkers at home, or debris floating in space one system jump from here.

And to be fair, it was nothing compared to the thousands of warships who had been mustered before the Trident. On that day, when Lord Robert Baratheon and Lord Eddard Stark had planned their attack on the unsuspecting Royal Fleet of the loathed Rhaegar Targaryen, there had been four navies represented.

Now? There were a few other Sector crews and lords aboard the warships, but only one was truly presented in significant numbers. Only one. The North.

By re-conquering the Crossroads System, the North had been able to assess the state of the Vale navies at the Bloody Gate. Frankly it was not good. The Eastern dockyards looked and acted way slower than their Northern counterparts. A task force of two ships of the line was on its way, but it was unlikely the Vale flagship the _Azure Falcon_ was at their head. However, the proximity of their yards meant they could recover faster from the thrashing the defunct Lord Randyll Tarly had given them.

The River Navy was in shambles. Of the Rebel Sectors revolting against Targaryen authority, they had been the most divided, not very surprising after all: Lord Eddard's marriage to Catelyn Tully and Jon Arryn's to Lysa Tully had proved the man was in to gain power and influence in the Game. Events had not gone according to the plan. The Rebellion had lost its leading figure at the Trident; the River Sector had lost Hoster Tully. The _Lord of the Rivers_ had suffered critical damage, and had had to be scuttled with its fusion reactor overload. Half of the ship of the line's crew had survived, but Lord Hoster had not been among them. The death of the Lost Paramount had finished the Riverlords cohesion. With Lord Tywin arriving by their western galactic frontier, each commander had decided to go back home and defend their home planet. It said something about this strategy that at this hour, only Riverrun and Raventree Hall were still fighting. Small squadrons subsisted...but these were small raids on the rear of the Lion, mere nuisances, unable to deliver a great blow and crush the Lannisters. No, the River Sector was a spent force according to his spies.

The Storm navy was the worst. For all intent and purposes, it no longer existed. Thousands had died with Lord Robert Baratheon, half of the Storm Sector had been fighting against him or ignored his call-to-arms. The survivors had refused multiple times the injunctions of Wyman and the other Northern commanders to retreat. The main lords and knights were still alive, but their warships crippled had stayed forever in the graveyard of Moat Cailin, and their crew were in the hospitals or in for a long recovery.

"The conference is about to begin, my lord." Announced his Chief of Staff Captain Sendel Wull.

"Thank you Sendel. You can take a break, the nature of the meeting requires a certain discretion."

"By your command, my lord."

Wyman pushed the blue button to ensure his portion of the bridge was fully isolated, then the yellow one. In the blink an eye, a conference room materialised by holo-projection around him.

The decoration showed by the holo-projector was austere. Besides a painting of old, showing the great fortress of Winterfell City under snowfalls, the walls were a neutral grey colour with a few imaginary direwolves paws. There were no gold, jewels or anything to reveal great officers were meeting there. Just a grey stable with the emblem of House Stark on it, a small tactical display, and nine chairs, which now were all occupied.

Including himself, two were holograms. The seven others present were all men and a woman of flesh and blood.

To his direct left were General Lord Jeor Mormont and General Lord Jon Umber, respectively Chief of the Marines Operations and Commander of the Northern Marine detachment. General Lord Willam Dustin, the third Marine in the chain of command, had also been invited but was much like Wyman only represented by a hologram. Willam Dustin injuries inflicted by Ser Barristan Selmy had not fully healed, and the rumours were his wife had not been happy to see her husband go back to the front while he was not able to walk on his own. Each of the three Marines seemed weirdly out of place, but because it was simply the fact they did not wear their massive battle-armours.

On Wyman's right were two of his fellow Admirals, Lord Ondrew Locke and Lord Medger Cerwyn. As Wyman was the Third Space Lord, responsible of the Northern Logistics and Intelligence, Medger was the First, more commonly known as the Chief of Naval Operations for the entire war effort. Lord Locke was the Second Space Lord, receiving the thankless and titanic task of keeping the navy finances healthy and the manpower problems to a minimum. Between the three of them, they coped with the situation. Barely.

And in front of Lord Wyman were the three persons truly in charge.

Lord Howland Reed, Master of Greywater Watch. Unimpressive and of little size, the crannogman did not look that dangerous. Hundreds of Dornishmen and Targaryen loyalists would have begged to disagree, if they had been alive to do so. Lord Howland was 'only' a General in the Northern Army, and had been transferred when the war started to supplement the limited Marine numbers, the Marines going on the offensive and the Army garrisoning and defending the conquests and the North itself. In truth, it was an established fact Lord Reed was Lord Stark's right hand, and his tactics had cost House Targaryen tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands men in the River Sector through irregular attacks and bloody skirmishes.

Lady Lyessa Flint, Lady of Widow's Watch. The only woman to be present, she led the Supreme General Staff of the Northern Sector, coordinating Navy, Army and Marines plus the various militias and diverse intelligence agencies spread from the Systems bordering the New Gift to the gigantic base of Moat Cailin. Officially, she had no military rank. House Stark had long learnt in centuries past it was not very intelligent to advertise who was managing all your military activities, as such a thing tended to focus dramatically the assassinations on your person. Unofficially, Lady Flint was the only person besides Lord Stark to hold a title of Marshal, making her the military superior of anyone in the North save their Lord Paramount. Which was why Lady Lyessa would disappear again at the end of this reunion, with no one save the nine persons in this room having noticed her arrival.

And of course, last but not least, Lord Eddard Stark himself, High Marshal of the North, Lord Paramount of the Northern Sector, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Young and clear-shaven, brown haired and grey eyes, Lord Eddard had a rather handsome face, and should have he not been married to Catelyn Tully, a lot of noble ladies would have rushed to charm him, make him smile and perhaps courtship towards a marriage.

But the Lord of Winterfell was rarely smiling anymore these days. Not since the Trident. Not since Lord Robert Baratheon had died in his arms. And the Silent Wolf, as Lord Stark had been nicknamed, had become a figure of dread and fear. Rumours had spread like an inferno of the now eldest surviving son of Lord Rickard. How hundreds of yellow-armoured knights of the Crown Sector had been cut down ruthlessly in the retreat to the assault shuttles. Thousands of loyalists had been systematically wiped out when the bays and rooms they were fighting in had been opened to the void or depressurised without warning. As far as the videos of this slaughter showed, Lord Eddard Stark had taken no prisoner in this bloodbath. Not a single one. And the merciless devastation of House Frey and the execution of Lord Walder had been done at his hands and on his orders. Though the weasel had undoubtedly deserved it, of course.

"Now that everyone is here, let us begin. We have little time, and even less to prepare our strategy. Marshal Lyessa?"

"The news are not good. In fact, they are horrible."

"How bad?" Asked Lord Mormont, the very figure of the Bear on his House arms.

"Storm's End has surrendered."

"By the Old Gods..." Whispered Lord Locke, paling brusquely.

"I'm afraid to say it, but it was in part the defunct Lord Robert's fault." There was no great apology in Lyessa's voice, but a flash of pain crossed Lord Stark's eyes and face. Seeing no interruption, Lady Lyessa continued.

"Storm's End was completely unprepared for a long siege, and their food stocks were practically empty when Mace Tyrell came with the might of the Reach at his back. The Baratheon system has few methods to produce food, and all them are extremely vulnerable to a hostile fleet. Moreover, Storm's End was home to eight hundred million inhabitants, as befitted for a great industrial centre of Westeros. Besieged, these were eight hundred million mouths to feed."

"I still say Lord Stannis could have found alternatives." Grumbled Jon Umber.

"I don't." Intervened Wyman. "My trade merchants have long frequented Storm's End and its surrounding systems, Lord Umber. It is not like the North where there are plenty of resources for every firm and free man wanting to make a business. Storm's End has been exploited to the bone by the Durrandons before the Conquest, and the Baratheons continued after they were granted the Paramountcy. It is not King's Landing, but they are forced to distillate their water and filter their air increasingly often these last years to prevent precocious cancers and the like. Being cut out of resources...they could not hold for long, no matter how powerful their orbital fortresses were."

"Lord Manderly speaks the truth. Lord Stannis tried to use smugglers to feed his planet, but few had any success against the Deep Space Fleet of the Redwynes. One named Davos managed twice to evade the patrols, but one smuggler enough was ridiculous for the needs of an entire planet and its garrison. And the rest of the pirates and sellsails abandoned their efforts after five were annihilated by the cannons of the Redwyne battlecruisers. Once they started to eat rats, the smallfolk population went into riots and the soldiers forced Lord Stannis to seek terms."

The voice of Lyessa Flint had not risen, like she was reciting a series of regulations. Perhaps she had decided to emulate Roose Bolton?

"Where does that leave us?" Asked the Lord of Winterfell.

"In a bad place?" Asked tentatively Lord Medger Cerwyn with a minor smirk, which disappeared as his Lord sent him a cold glare. "Without Lord Stannis or his younger brother, we have no other claimants to oppose the Targaryens."

"And if they are not busy surrounding Storm's End, the Tyrell fleet will be free to redeploy against other targets." Lord Willam Dustin dramatically paused. "Us."

"Us." Agreed Lady Lyessa. "According to the reports we got from our sources in the South, the Reach fleet is still numbering forty ships of the line, even without the twenty Lord Tarly and Florent lost at the Trident against our coalition. If they join with the Lannister fleet concentrating at Harrenhal and whatever remains us the Crown and River lords loyal to the dragons, we could have a fleet of sixty to seventy capital ships, and perhaps two thousand more lighter ships against us."

"We can't stand after that." Lord Locke turned his head to see everyone in the room, holographic or real. "We can't stand. At best, we will have some fifteen active ships of the line once the Arryns reinforce us."

"We have to pass on the defensive. There's no other option." Concluded Lord Jeor Mormont.

"Agreed." Answered Admiral Locke. "Thankfully, we have no shortage of spatial mines, laser platforms and missile barrages to guard the jump point."

"Can our stockpiles last this attrition warfare? We have been forced in this war quite precipitately..."

The point of Lord Willam Dustin had touched a sensible issue, by the way Lord Stark and Lady Flint exchanged looks.

"No." Sighed Marshal Flint. "The war has generated a huge amount of disruption in our economy. I think we have six months of supplies before I am forced to divert critical reserves from the less important areas."

"We would be forced to rob Torrhen to equip Brandon." Clarified Lord Reed, his unimpressive voice taking part for the first time in the conversation.

"Exactly. Which is why I'm hoping to avoid this." The warmth of the looks Lady Flint sent to the other Northmen could be best described as very insistent.

"What about Braavos or another Essossi power?" Proposed Lord Jon 'Greatjon' Umber. "They have the greatest Deep Space Fleet of the Quadrant, and certainly the industry to aliment our war machine for a few more years."

"Yes, but Braavos has officially declared neutrality." Wyman said in a resigned voice. "They don't like the dragons, but Tywin Lannister paying the Iron Throne's debts has limited their interests in the Seven Sectors. No, unless a Targaryen commander is stupid enough to fire on a Braavosi merchant where dozens of starships can see him, they will not go to great lengths to help our forces.

As for the rest of the Essossi Free Planets, we have no major contacts with any of them, and they are all slaver nations. "

"The price they would demand could ruin us for centuries to come too." Added Wyman on after-thought, having a good grasp of the sums ammunition, tanks and all sort of warship spare parts cost. "If the price of freedom from the Targaryens is economic slavery to the Essossi..."

"As long as Aerys Targaryen is in command, we have no choice but to fight." Told Willam Dustin in an ironic voice. "I don't think that 'execution by wildfire' would be a nice resume on my career report."

All the participants laughed nervously at the terrible joke.

"I will send a raven-drone to Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton to test the defences of the Fairmarket System." Decided the Lord Paramount of the North." If they can take and fortify it against the Westerners, we could stop cold the Tyrell and Lannister offensive in their tracks on two fronts. Admiral Manderly, you will detach a light cruiser squadron to reconquer the Saltpans system. Send a courier to verify the neutrality of the Quiet Isle has not been disrupted."

"And if the Targaryen persist coming at us?" Demanded Admiral Cerwyn. "What if they decide to press on the offensive?"

"Then we will teach them why it is a bad idea." Answered Lord Eddard with a look that a direwolf of old would not have denied as family tie. "Winter is coming, Admiral Cerwyn. The Reach is a very populated Sector, but even an idiot glory-hound like Mace Tyrell should understand the lesson when he will lose a few million spacemen and ground soldiers to take each system of the Kingsroad one by one."

"Death to the lackeys of the Targaryens!" Exclaimed the Greatjon, agitating the large arms with which he had crushed so many enemies.

"Winter is coming!" Answered the eight others, in a ritual that had oddly become familiar as the Rebellion went on.

 _Yes_ , thought Wyman. _Winter is coming. I wonder how long the walls of Westeros can hold it?_

 **Kevan Lannister, 18.07.283AAC, Harrenhal System**

Whatever one might think about Harren Hoare, it was impossible to deny the man had thought big. Like, galactic-sized big.

The Harrenhal system was living proof of this immense ego.

Before Harren turn his monstrous ambition to the River Sector, the Blackwoods and the Brackens had disputed themselves this rich system named Nirvana. With one verdant planet and two moons inhabitable, plus a modest asteroid belt and a gas giant, the system was a nice prize to whoever commanded it. Plenty of minerals and water cascades in Nirvana Major. Flourishing harvests in Nirvana Minor and Taera. Four jump points allowed merchants to come here and buy the agricultural products that were the main income of the system. There had been of course constant skirmishes between the two bitter enemy Houses of the Sector, but overall Nirvana had been a very pleasant stellar system to live in, with low taxes and a decent climate.

The arrival of the Hoare dynasty brutally put an end to all of this. Wishing to replace the old fortress of Fairmarket, Harren decided Nirvana was going to be his masterwork. The three powerful knightly Houses in Nirvana had been exterminated, and Harrenhal Prime was built on their ashes. It took overall forty years, everyone not living as a hermit in the Seven Sectors knew that. Forty years to build a titanic fortress, dwarfing by length, width and height every citadel of Westeros. Five huge black towers and an imposing of modern ramparts then rose to reach the sky. Forty years to construct sixty-six massive orbital stations, that would in time supply the Iron warships, protect the world below and provide everything the master of the Iron Sector wanted. Forty years for a fuel station to feed the greedy needs of the Ironborn longships. Forty years to produce tens of thousands laser, missile and plasma defensive installations, with the reactors necessary to aliment them.

The cost had been beyond atrocious. The gold reserves of the Iron and the River Sector had been completely liquidated. Four hundred million workers had continuously participated in this seemingly impossible task, and at least half of them had died before the task was accomplished. The River Sector had been bled out in manpower, and every lord of note had been pushed on the verge of insurrection by the impossible demands coming every month by raven-drone. Harren had obviously not thought a lot about how he was going to keep his hellish-looking base functional, having literally killed the Nirvanan economy and a quarter of the River Sector manpower to achieve his fool dream of glory.

But it had not mattered in the end.

Harren had been challenged by Aegon the Conqueror immediately after the total completion of his dark orbital fortresses, and paid it of his life. The defences of Harrenhal Prime, combined with the longships kept in the shipyards, may have been able to deter a large fleet until the Ironborn reinforcements came to the rescue.

Against Balerion the Black Dread, they had not stood a chance. Bigger than a ship of the line, the black dragon had appeared from the emptiness of deep space and demolished the elaborate defences in orbit like they were toys. Then Harren had learnt how his defiance was futile, as dragonfire consumed forty years of efforts and tens of thousands men.

Despite the attack of the greatest dragon alive, anybody was forced to realise Harrenhal had well resisted. Harren had built big, and in one night Balerion had not had the time to burn everything. The large towers were gone at the top, but it still left them hundred of metres above the ground.

The parade grounds in front of the black fortress now belonging to House Whent were cursed with the same folly of size. In the military headquarters of a Lord Paramount House like House Tully, the space given to such a construction was enough for a hundred thousand soldiers to come to attention. The ones owned by House Lannister were a bit bigger, but they were underground, to avoid the disgraceful possibility of an Ironborn raid eliminating the Western upper chain of command in one strike.

But those which had been built by Harren defied imagination. With the space that had been created, literally millions of regular infantry could march and manoeuvre here. For extraordinary events like today, it was perfect.

"What a waste of size and time." Whispered on his left Kevan's brother, Gerion Lannister. "I bet we could have done a lot of interesting things instead of waiting for this clusterfuck. I'm sweating under this proud lion's uniform and-"

"Gerion..." Kevan groaned. His younger brother had been strangely calm for the last hour in his Colonel attire barded with medals. Now the period of silence was well and truly officially over.

"I mean, it's not like hundreds of Lannister soldiers are fighting and dying everywhere...or the paperwork is not amassing in mountains as we speak..."

"Gerion..."

"Do you think Lord Whent has kept Harren's swimming pool?"

Kevan stared open-mouthed a couple of seconds before saying a curt:

"Shut up, Gerion. And keep it closed, Tywin was already in a bad humour this morning, no need to make it sourer."

"You mean he was as grumpy as ever." Translated Gerion. "Fine, fine. I will not open my mouth in public. Satisfied?"

Kevan frowned inwardly. The tone of his young brother was not humorous anymore, it had taken a dark edge. Why did he suddenly get the feeling he had made a mistake? By the Father, he was the Chief of Naval Operations of the Western Sector and he was unable to dress down his brother!

"The pride must stay united. Hear me Roar."

"Yes, yes." The voice of his brother Tygett announced himself on his right. Turning his attention to him, Kevan saw the first of his brother were tightened around the hilt of his ceremonial vibro-sword, and his muscles were particularly projecting the red uniform of space squadron commander he wore. The gold wings showing his membership of the Western Fighter Command shone brightly under the sun. "We have to stay united for Tywin to gain more power and the glory of House Lannister. No need to tell this for the millionth time, Kevan. Just remember him the next time that we are his brothers, Kevan. We are not the enemy."

"He hasn't coped with Joanna's death. Give him time..."

"Seven Hells, brother!" Angrily whispered Tygett. "She's been dead for a decade! I know it cost him dearly, but it's not a reason to imitate a stone and send thousands of men to their deaths! The next assault on Riverrun was just a meatgrinder! Half of the fighter wings we had were shredded! Guess what, these men had wives and children of their own!"

"The court-martials he prepares for every officer having failed in their duty at the Twins worry me too." Spoke Gerion. "I mean, Loren screwed up badly, but given how bad the intelligence in the briefings was..."

"I know." Kevan sighed, a headache was slowly forming. "I know..."

Fortunately, the arrival of the shuttles put an end to this uncomfortable conversation. In their formal uniforms on the great balcony overhanging the grounds, the highest nobles of the Western Sector military forces assisted to the first deployment in parade of a hundred thousand infantrymen in their impeccable battle-armours, quickly followed by hundreds of tanks and uncountable war machines.

It happened on the extreme left of the area, and the army represented was the loyalists Riverlords.

"They look like they're going to a mummer's farce." Commented soberly Tygett, and Kevan could not fault his brother. Since Aegon the Conqueror had made the Tullys his Lord Paramount of the Rivers, the Sector military uniform had been red and blue. Now however, with Riverrun in rebellion the loyalists had been forced to repaint their armours to signal they stayed loyal to the Targaryens. The problem? They had not managed to form a consensus on whose colours to choose. The Darrys were now in brown armours to emulate their banners, the Whents had chosen a yellow stripped with black model, the Rygers were in white and green...and the list continued on and on. Furthermore, the dreadful casualties they had received at the Trident and against the raids of the Tully raiders meant they were sometimes companies of three or four different systems. The colour effect was...strange, to stay polite.

Then it was the turn of the extreme right to be hammered by durasteel boots in step. If the presence of the Riverlords had provoked some amusement, in the three lines of red-dressed figure behind Kevan, the feelings provoked by the newcomers were somewhat worse. Piety, outright insults, angry whispers.

The Crown Prince had ordered for a hundred thousand men of the highest peerage possible from each Sector to assist this triumph, but for the Vale loyalists and the Stormlands loyalists, it was impossible. There were simply not a hundred thousand men having stayed loyal to the dragons in these two Sectors, nobility or no nobility.

 _Exiling Connington has not helped. Nor did Merryweather's tardiness to support Gulltown._

After the exile of the Lord of Griffin's Roost, the men of the Stormlands had in their great majority gone home and stayed quiet. That they had not bothered coming in numbers now that Storm's End had surrendered said quite a few things about the loss of prestige the Targaryen dynasty had suffered.

As for the Vale, the men stationed in Harrenhal were in majority rebels having turned cloak at the Trident or detachments that had been stationed outside Arryn lands when the conflict erupted. Not exactly the best example one wanted of loyalty. Between the two forces, the one hundred thousand mark required was reached. Barely.

The process continued with the last of the Eastern sectors. Shining under the splendid sun, the Gold Fists, as the regular troops of the Crown were called, left their landing zones on Kevan's direct left and advanced in a standard military march, luminescent in their bright yellow armours, rising high the black and red dragon banner of House Targaryen. Lord Mortimer Harte was leading them, his helmet under his right arm, saluting the crowd of Harrenhal having come to assist to this event.

Then it was the turn of the Lannister parade. Kevan winced. By all rights, it should have been the turn of the Tyrell to come now, and the Westerners after, at the place of honour, in the centre and under the hurrahs of millions spectators. That it had changed...only one person had the power to make this drastic modification.

"Oh, our dear brother is looking like he was forced to shit gold." Murmured Gerion, looking very pleased as a hundred thousand men in red with gold insignia were brought to the parade ground.

"Gerion..."

But it was true, to Kevan's great shame. Even from afar, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport and by the laws of Gods and Men, Supreme Commander of the Western Sector Military Forces, was looking grim and tense. Kevan's eldest brother had removed his leonine helmet too, but he made only slight movements of his golden armour to unleash acclamations, and the crowd returned it by dispersed cheers. The progression of a hundred thousand and one red-gold armours was done in a rhythm close to a funeral march.

When his brother stopped his march in front of the balcony, the controlled column of thousands of Lannister bannersmen at his heels, Kevan could see the eyes who had mercilessly killed every Reyne and Tarbeck burn in anger and controlled rage.

 _Once again, the dragons humiliate us. First Aerys, now Rhaegar. Why did we take their side again in this war, I wonder? Ah, yes. Tywin wanted his daughter to be a Queen._

And finally, under thunderous acclamations and entire chorus of trumpets, the Reach forces came from orbit to complete the picture. One look at the number of shuttles and atmospheric transports made limpid they had not arrived in the same effectives as the rest of the other Sectors.

 _We wanted a hundred thousand men each to make a display of unity! What is Mace Tyrell playing at?_

"And here come the Dumb Peacock..." Smirked Gerion, with Tygett barking to approve.

Fortunately, the Lord of Highgarden was still some four hundred metres away, unable to listen to the mockeries he was the recipient. But it was well deserved. There were about the triple of the expected Reach forces landing on Harrenhal grounds, a sea of green extending far towards the horizon. Marching in first line, with a finely crafted gold and green armour, was Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, waddling under a great rose banner.

With a finely trimmed beard and the hair at the latest southern trend, the Lord of Highgarden looked almost like a hero of legend. Alas, his gigantic battle-armour displayed exactly the contrary. Covered in golden engraving and enlarged to accommodate the belly of its occupant, Kevan estimated this object of vanity would attract every marksman on a conventional battlefield, and it could not stand more than two or three laser hits. And to prove exactly that point, the High Marshal of the Reach had come without helmet. Without helmet! Kevan wondered if Mace Tyrell marched one day to battle, how far would he get. The Warden of the South was often criticised as being unable to find the site of a battle without explicit instructions and a lot of help.

"GROWING STRONG! HARRENHAL!" Boomed the shouts of hundreds of thousands green warriors at the same moment. Certainly prepared in advance.

The crowd behind and to the sides of Kevan loved it. They exploded in cheers and screams. "HIGHGARDEN!", "TYRELL!", "GROWING STRONG!" were the most common. No cheer for the Lannister, Kevan noted with a point of jealousy.

Turning again to parade ground, everyone was now standing attention. All the transports were now on the grounds, with no more lords and knights declaring their presence to this princely summon.

It was all. No forces of the Iron, North and Dorne sectors would be coming. The North, of course, had been fully committed to the rebellion from the start, thanks to the madness of Aerys. The Ironborn had stayed neutral, even if one or two audacious pirates attacked the merchants risking themselves in their hunting grounds of the Sunset Void.

No, it was Dorne's absence that was the critical factor. House Martell had lost four of five men and ships they had sent to the Trident, including one Kingsguard. Kevan knew the surviving troops, still numbering around a million survivors and twenty warships, were stationed in the Wode and Darry Systems. Said Systems were one and two jumps away respectively, and heavily garrisoned against the possibility of a counter-attack. A missing day away was not justifiable. Refusing a summon from a Targaryen was tantamount to treason, and with the death of Prince Lewyn Martell, there were only two men in the Seven Sectors who could order their spacemen and armsmen to play ignorance. The first was the Prince of Dorne. The second was the Red Viper.

 _I wonder how they are going to react to our little surprise in King's Landing..._

In other circumstances, Kevan would have ordered a purge. But if Doran Martell himself had given the orders, eliminating these veterans would just convince Dorne to jump with the Rebellion.

 _And it's not like we have the manpower to invade Dorne at the moment..._

A new shadow obscured the sky, breaking his thoughts. It was a large shuttle, almost the size of one the Western army used to land its Behemoths in battle. On contrary of the heavy shuttle design, built to resist the strikes of hundreds, no thousands of anti-aerial pieces, this mammoth had not been conceived to wage war. It was dragon-shaped, painted in red and back, with the dragon symbol repeated a score of time on the doors, wings and hull and decorated like a cathedral gate.

In a last burst of its reactors, the flyer landed in the space left between the Lord Paramounts and the group led by Lord Walter Whent. The score of men with the Lord of Harrenhal had just descended from the balcony by the black marble ramp, and was now turning his back to the balcony where Kevan was standing with his brothers.

Leaving the princely transport, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen came into the light, surrounded by his sworn swords, all wearing the red and black battle-armours of his House. A torrent of applaud erupted from the smallfolk and the armies gathered. Millions screamed when the Crown Prince raised his arm in salute.

"HAIL TARGARYEN!" Was repeated again and again by people delighted by this demonstration of grace and firepower.

This was not the perfect Prince who had seduced millions of maidens on hundreds of world at the Harrenhal tournament. This Rhaegar had been perfect in appearance and manners. This Rhaegar had been irresistible, gracious and without reproach, graceful and a sun of beauty, a living reminder of the power and the blood of the ancient dragonlords. The one standing in front of Tywin, Lord Walter Whent, Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Mortimer Harte made a good show, yes. But it was not the same man. This man was...diminished.

The eldest son of Aerys was wearing a priceless Mark seven battle-armour with incrusted rubies and diamonds. His helmet, carried playfully under his left arm, was dragon-shaped with a fist-sized ruby upon the forefront. The long silver hair, inheritance of a power lost to the Doom, flowed freely in the air. A magnificent vibro-sword with the hilt of a dragon was belted to his side.

But it was his face where the problem laid. Despite the efforts of the best healers Rhaegar had on his flagship, hundreds of hours to hide the dozen of severe scars which had partially disfigured his face were not enough.

 _Lyanna Stark had really not gone without a fight_ , thought Kevan.

Galactic Targaryen News was going to censor the subject and retouch the holo-videos, that was not a question. But as soon as the North got an unedited picture of this meeting...

More than ever, Kevan prayed Tywin knew the risks of their ploy. Replacing the wife of the Prince by Cersei was a sure plan to gain more power and influence, but when the man himself was a known rapist...

"Your Highness." Bowed Lord Walter Whent, aged but shining in yellow-black battle-armour. All the warriors and the assistance imitated him, from Tywin and Kevan to the humblest smallfolk in the distant stands. "Harrenhal is yours." Rhaegar lowered his right hand, and the Master of Harren's Folly kissed the flashing red ruby set in a black dragon-shaped ring. Then a graceful gesture was made, and the spectators stood again on their own legs.

The next hours were tiring and harassing. Lord Whent insisted to give a grand banquet, though for what purpose evaded Kevan. With the war raging everywhere, every food stock was officially rationed. The system of Harrenhal wasn't an exception to the rule. Indeed, while the menu available for Princes, Lords and Admirals was significantly better than the vile paste given to the lower ranked soldier. At the Great Tourney, celebrated in this very fortress what felt like an eternity ago, there had been seventy-seven meals for an entire week and alcohol to profusion. Now, there were seven and they were not appetising ones.

Gerion and Tygett had escaped long ago for who knows where, though Gerion had not resisted to shout a "Hear me Roar!" in the assembly before fleeing with a great cup of wine and a prostitute in his arms. The challenge had not been noticed by Tywin nor by many others, the cacophony reigning in the kilometres-long being properly infernal. Kevan had really wanted more to shoot his brother, but unfortunately the weapons had been left behind to avoid regrettable incidents.

After three more hours where the entourage of every Lord Paramount got drunker and drunker, Prince Rhaegar finally left the table, sending servitors to ask a few chosen commanders to follow him. Tywin and Kevan were included, as befitted of the men leading the Western fleets, as was Ser Damion Lannister, Field Lion Marshal of the Great Western Army. For the River Sector, Lord Raymun Darry and Lord Walter Whent were chosen. For the Crown, Lord Mortimer Harte. And for the Reach, came the Warden of the South Lord Mace Tyrell with Lord Rowan and seven other major lords with red faces.

 _They really have not gotten light on their drinks, don't they?_

The room all the summoned lords entered was of course several square metres larger than common sense required for a private meeting, but it was at least not the Great Hall where an entire army could disappear without leaving a trace. Gold and onyx decorations were everywhere, the bats were sculpted on every column and a rich golden table with the arms of House Whent lied in the middle, with huge seats surrounding it. Nothing having been planned and some of the participants staggered before finding an unoccupied one.

"Impressive speech your Highness." Buttered up Lord Whent as soon as the last fat Reach posterior had found its place.

Kevan raised an eyebrow. Rhaegar had pronounced a speech? In all this noise and the metres separating him from Aerys's son, it had not arrived to his ears.

"Thank you Lord Rowan. But I'm afraid this speech was the easy part. How fares the war?"

"Not well, your Highness. Not well." The Lord of Harrenhal was on the verge of sniffing, it was pathetic...and another attempt at bootlicking. "The Northerners have retaken the Fairmarket System in a two-prongs attack, and once our reinforcements arrived, the jump point was already mined and the rebels were waiting behind."

"How many ships of the line were engaged by the North in this battle?" Asked the Crown Prince with a frown of concentration.

"Only two, but they had a lot of armoured cruisers and battlecruisers." Replied Kevan. "And to make matters more complicated, Vice-Admiral Jast was forced to divide his forces in two formations to cover the jump point from Oldstones and the artificial one from Vypren. At two against one in tonnage, our commander preferred to withdraw instead of risking the destruction piece-meal of his forces."

"It sounds a lot like excuses after having misjudged the situation." Commented Lord Jack Blackbar.

"I beg your pardon my lord?"

"This was not an accusation, Ser Kevan."

 _No, but it was the next best thing you could imply._

"So the Rebellion holds every system north of Fairmarket and the Crossroads." Commented Lord Jon Bulwer, his wine-stained clothes and his slurred voice making a mockery of the General title the man held.

"Yes." Detailed Lord Mortimer Harte." Our agents and the raiders we left behind have all reported they are not probing further south anymore. They have placed a lot of mines and defensive platforms on top of each jump point. All signs tend to point they are aware of the fall of Storm's End, and are now intending to wage a defensive war."

"I agree with Lord Harte, my Prince." Insisted Lord Walter, who apparently had decided to speak a lot but with little intrinsic value. "Apart from small raids, they are retrenching behind a new defensive line."

"Bah! This will not save them when we will attack!" Boasted Mace Tyrell.

 _What did he just say?_

"With due respect, Lord Tyrell, this might be a very daring proposition." Affirmed Marshal Damion Lannister. By the expression on his face, Kevan's cousin had wanted to replace the word 'daring' by 'stupid'. "Our analysts predict that for each system we launch an attack in due form, we must expect to lose four ships of the line and the double in escorts. And if the Northerners are fighting as well on ground than they are doing in space, our ground forces could lose between one and two million men by planet."

"These figures would be for the first systems assaulted. Our casualties would largely diminish after the first series of assault." Tempered Lord Mathis Rowan, his green uniform being far from spotless. Unlike his counterparts it was not wine but another white substance which had found his way on his uniform.

"I disagree." Lord Raymun Darry's posture was bristling with hostility. "Our troops have already fought the Northerners all over the River Sector, and at no moment have we watched a decrease in moral or efficiency. They hold fifteen systems, and the more we push them northwards, the more we play their game as they are shortening their supplies lines. The last worlds to be assaulted will be more defended than the firsts, not less."

"Lacking the stomach for war, Lannister, Darry?" Scoffed one of Mace subordinates with a condescending and dry Reacher accent.

"Trying to minimise our losses, Blackbar." Retorted Damion. "If the Northern forces retreat from the River Sector, our next target is Moat Cailin. And we haven't a chance in the Seven Hells to take this fortress System. Not without two large Deep Space Fleets attacking White Harbor and the Blazewater Rift to catch them in the flanks."

Lord Jack Blackbar did not find any worthy counter to this assertion and stayed with his mouth shut. But the brown eyes were narrowed, and Kevan could not help t think the Marshal of the Western Sector and the Rose General were not going to leave this room with plans to betroth their children.

"Attacking the Bloody Gate presents the same difficulties." Lord Mortimer calmly tried to divert the course of the conversation to safer harbours. "There are massive fortresses everywhere, and the asteroids belts present uncountable ambush points against any attackers. We could lose millions men before reaching the planet and tens of millions afterwards."

The situation shifted to more pleasant topics afterwards, but with very little solutions. It was golden clear this was not going anywhere. The Reachers were drunk, Lord Walter was sucking up for the Prince and Tywin had not opened the mouth once. Rhaegar had deprived him of the place of honour in the triumph, the Heir to the Iron Throne would find no help here.

Finally, Rhaegar rose his hand. The conversation stopped.

"I trust everyone here is aware of Operation Downfall?" This was more an affirmation than a question. A murmur of approbation and vigorous drunk nods of the head answered Rhaegar positively.

"Good. I intend to recall Lord Jon Connington from exile as soon as my father is deposed."

To their credit, none of the men around the table flinched at the announcement of what couldn't be mistaken as high treason and rebellion against the King of Westeros.

"For his faithful service and his accomplishments in this conflict, Lord Connington will be elevated to the rank of Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector. House Baratheon will keep the lordship of Storm's End, but none of their other titles and will have to proceed to a general demilitarisation of their home orbital defences. Each family will have to send one of its members to the capital as hostage, if it is a child the Crown will decide where the fostering will take place. The Houses having rebelled against House Targaryen will be forced to pay reparation for the loyal subjects of the Iron Throne they have attacked and killed. Goods from the Reach will be granted a tax decrease of ten percent on their exportations in the Storm Sector. To make sure they understand the price of rebellion, their tithes will be raised by thirty per cent for a period of twenty years."

 _By the Father Above...this is going to destroy the Storm Sector!_

Not every lord had answered the Baratheon call for arms, but those who had followed the rebels to defeat were generally the wealthiest. Selmy, Caron, Dondarrion, Buckler, Morrigen, Swann, Estermont. These were the first which came to mind, all owning various resources or their systems being strategically placed to take appreciable commercial tolls for their Systems interests.

Kevan was a Lannister. This meant that for all his childhood, he had been initiated in the saint precepts of the economy and the trade centre exchanges. The Storm Sector was one of the weakest financially speaking, with only the North sending equivalent tithes. Each of the punishment in the list Rhaegar had given would have made huge damage. Combine all of them, and this was going to be ugly for the Stormlanders.

If Rhaegar had conscience of the devastation's magnitude his declaration was going to cause, his scarred face showed none of it.

"For their dedicated service to the Crown in this hard time, Lord Raymun Darry will be granted the Paramountcy of the River Sector and Lord Walter Whent the title of Trident Warden. Lord Edmure Tully will be acknowledged by the Crown as Lord of Riverrun, under the condition he becomes ward of the King until his twenty name days. All the Noble and Knightly Houses having followed their liege lord in rebellion will have to foster one of their children at King's Landing. An increase of their taxes of fifteen percent for ten years has been hereby decided, and they will have to participate in the recovery of the Trident System, that they have contributed to destroy. "

Far more lenient terms for the River Sector. No surprise there. Lord Raymun Darry and Lord Walter Whent had lost quite a few members of their families at the Trident and in diverse skirmishes, which put them before the Tully rebels in reliability.

The stratagem of Rhaegar was not subtle, but it was hardly idiot either. Divide the different Sectors of the Rebellion by proposing different terms, starting feuds and enmities in their battle orders, which in the defeat had already started to fracture.

House Connington and Darry were certainly powerful Noble Houses, but neither had really the prestige or the industrial capacities at present to challenge the Systems of their former liege lords. This was going to be troublesome. The Mallisters and the Blackwoods had still big connections and military strongholds. If they decided to contest these decisions in the future...

Rhaegar had not finished. In fact, the next point out of his mouth was even more controversial. Moreover, two of his teeth were golden, souvenir of a rape session having badly turned.

"I intend to propose to the North and Vale a cease-fire upon my coronation. There will be no demand for hostages or taxes increases, and I will give back to Lord Arryn and Lord Stark the mortal remains of their families and bannersmen who were killed by my father."

 _How generous of you. They might forget it was your family and your actions that started this whole mess._

"Such lenient terms might be more than the North and the Vale expects." Warned Lord Raymun.

"Which is why the North will have to abandon all the River Systems they hold at the moment and all the pretensions going with them. I know they have proclaimed new Lords for the Twins, Erenford, Charlton and Haigh, but these nominations will have to be rescinded."

Rhaegar was openly smirking, now, like the Prince of Dragonstone knew a good pleasantry he had just invented.

"Lord Emmon Frey will be the new Lord of the Twins."

Kevan saw the sulking of his brother turn to something more interested and rapacious. Emmon Frey was a non-entity, but he was married to their sister Gemma. House Lannister had just been granted a golden door to control the Twins tolls for the next decades. Assuming the cease-fire was accepted.

" Ser Leslyn Haigh will regain his possessions. Lord Ambrose Charlton and Lord Duncan Erenford are the new legitimate governors of their systems, and the Crown will tolerate no other claim. The Umbers and Flints occupying these systems will return to the North, leaving the infrastructure in the state they found it."

"And the prisoners, your Highness?" Lord Mortimer Harte was inquisitive. There were a lot of Gold Fists held in the Northern prisoner camps.

"Ah, yes the prisoners." The smile of Rhaegar bordered on the gurgle of daughter.

"Under the circumstance, I don't think the Starks and the Arryns have the right to demand the ransoms they want from our loyal lords and subjects. The rebels will take the sums we decide, and not the contrary. The regulars trapped behind enemy lines will have to be repatriated at the expense of the rebel flag officer in charge of the spatial theatre."

"Why, your Highness, should the Lord of Winterfell accept such terms?" Kevan voiced with heavy scepticism what a lot of lords no doubt thought at this table. "I will grant you the terms are not particularly damaging economically and militarily. But the North and the Vale aren't exactly losing as we speak. Why should the Lord of Winterfell accept such terms and give back all his gains when he has just won a major offensive?"

The expression of the Prince of Dragonstone became a mix of viciousness, insanity and dark joy.

"Why, to save his daughter and his nieces, of course."

 _Overall the Northern offensive code-called Trident Ashes, the last great offensive of the Usurper's War, was a major success for the Rebellion, partially erasing their defeat suffered in the Trident system._

 _The Northern navy retook nine systems in the River Sector, including the vital Fairmarket and Crossroads Systems, suffering only light losses in the process. One battlecruiser, two heavy cruisers and twenty-six lighter units were destroyed, one armoured cruiser was heavily damaged and would be abandoned to the scrap specialists of Seagard two months later. But they had done much better than their opponents, and the Stark-led fleet could unite once again with the Vale forces from the Bloody Gate._

 _Between the loyalist Western and River ground forces, 15 brigades were forced to lay down their arms and surrender, approximately 24 768 men in total. To these numbers had to be added the destruction of the 182th Brigade commanded by General Talin Lannis in the Vypren System when he and his command refused to surrender to the vastly superior Northern forces. The Lannister Navy saw two of its old armoured cruisers and four battlecruisers be destroyed, and sixty-one smaller warships of diverse classes disappeared from their order of battle._

 _In the loyalist controlled Systems, the very mention of this offensive was deliberately and consciously censored. Men and women trying to contact their missing families in the areas were misled with false explanations or put in detention until the end of the war. Foreign and rebel agents trying to spread the news of the Northern counter-offensive to Operation Lightning Lion were arrested and more often than not executed by firing squad without a trial. If finding the truth about the Battle of the Trident was difficult and would in most cases be revealed progressively after the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion when other matters attracted the public attention, Trident Ashes stayed a taboo for the Houses and their subjects respecting the laws of the Iron Throne for long decades. Nine men out of ten having been involved were put in half-pay, with the formal interdiction of speaking about the defeat. The ones who kept their post saw their careers stalled for decade, Vice-Admiral Lord Antario Jast being the prominent example._

 _After the final peace treaty was signed and the new king crowned, all mentions of Trident Ashes were promptly erased from the military records at King's Landing and the core headquarters following the Targaryen lead. False battles images and reports were forged by the technicians of the Ministry of Information, rewriting history at the orders of the Hand and the Small Council. Nothing had to murky the announced triumph of House Targaryen, and neither the Western, Crown nor the Reach ruling elites wanted to reveal how long a war to submit the last rebel realms would have lasted. Assuming victory would have been the outcome._

 _As a result, the Crown, Reach, River and Western navies completely and utterly failed to learn anything from this humiliating experience, an issue which was going to return with a vengeance during the Greyjoy Rebellion, but more importantly and dramatically in the conflict following eleven years later._

 _Foreign nations were more astute in that regard. In 286AAC, the Triarchy of Volantis officially launched the Gladiator, leading ship for their new class of battlecruisers, preceding by three days the Dancer of the Braavosi Navy. In both cases, naval experts recognised the influence of the Northern starships. Bulkier shapes, overpowered engines, augmentation of the armour-plating and the shields, resistance and length improvement of different electronic and gravity components._

 _The North itself would analyse its mistakes and built the Dreadnought class for the battlecruisers and the Brandon Stark class for the Armoured Cruisers by 288AAC, although the specifics of the changes were going to be a mystery until 301AAC, none of the warships in question fighting in the Greyjoy Rebellion._

 _The unclassified parts of Trident Ashes proved to launch hundreds of debates from Winterfell to Tyrosh on the proper doctrine for battlecruisers. Manderly Editions would publish a score of e-books on the topic until 298AAC, and the Essossi Free Planets saw quite a few pertinent works be published, some of them finding their way in the hands of gifted tacticians. Naturally, all those writings were forbidden of publication from Nightsong to the Twins._

 _Overshadowed by the Fall of Storm's End, the Triumph of Harrenhal and the King's Downfall of the same period, Trident Ashes remains to this day obscure and uncharted void for those in the Sunset Quadrant having a limited knowledge of military history._

From Prelude to the Night by Syrio Forel, 310AAC.


	3. Downfall (Prologue 3)

**Prologue 3**

 **Downfall**

" _It is one of the favourite quotes of the Westerosi admirals and generals that no plan survives contact with the enemy. But Operation Downfall is proof any plan can fall well before that point..._ " Master of Whisperers Lord Varys Tivario, 300AAC.

" _What a clusterfuck_." Lord Richard Lonmouth, 283AAC.

" _They promised us the war was over_..." Anonymous Targaryen loyalist, 283AAC.

 **Lord Varys, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System**

 _Why, oh why did I choose to apply for my job?_

It was a question plaguing Varys Tivario. This was not his real name of course, but to his knowledge, only two living people knew his real identity, and neither would talk to the authorities of King's Landing. Good, because otherwise the eunuch having come into this part of the galaxy under the name Vaelor Blackfyre would have been a dead man.

When the future Master of Whisperers had arrived in the King's Landing, he had not believed his mission would be easy. As an Essossi with a false background and a limited amount of cash for his operations, the chances for an easy climb in the byzantine hierarchy of the Royal Court were slim. His accomplice Illyrio, brother-in-law and extraordinary magister of Pentos, had estimated Varys would need twenty years to reach a post where he would be able to advance their interests. Varys had thought it would take thirty for the cause to be truly rooted in the Dragon's Den. The Blackfyre cause and interests, of course.

That the paranoia of Aerys Targaryen had given him in only six years the keys of the Crown Intelligence Agency had been literally a godsend, and had allowed them to accelerate their plans enormously. Varys had now a power base of millions agents and informers working for him across the Crown Sector and the Sunset Sectors as a whole. Drones, screening devices and official reports were literally at his disposal on a platinum platter.

 _But I hadn't expected to do everyone's job in this fucking kingdom until we were ready to push our coup! Is there a single man left who cares about doing his duty?_

Turning out this low assessment of the Westerosi administration, Varys opened the mouth to address his...colleague...by all the Gods...considering this man an equal with a perfect and charming smile was taxing for his nerves.

"Let me sum-up the situation in a few words, Lord Stokeworth. You have a lost a nuke."

"It's the fault of my men!" Protested the Goldcloaks commander.

 _What happened to the officers that considered their men the extensions of their bodies? Or is it not tradition for the commander to take the blame when the men under him screw up? Never mind. I'm not sure I want to know_.

In his golden battle-armour Mark 5, the forty- six years old noble looked positively ridiculous. The frontal durasteel plate had been cleaned so many times it was nearly a mirror. The arms and leg were covered with engravings of the Warrior's Litany benedictions. All above his heart and the sheep insignia of his House, there were scores of military medals, each massive and grandiloquent proclaiming imaginary deeds. The insignia on his shoulder were platinum or another silver-coloured metal, with a lot of wings and other decorations that had never figured in the list of regular dressing.

 _What a waste of good armour._

Because Varys knew the details of Manly Stokeworth from his engagement to the present month. Never had this man come in a circle of ten kilometres where a bloodshed scene took place. And it was not an exaggeration. When Aerys had organised his little bloodbath in the arena, Manly had hidden behind the weight of his duties to not assist the awful spectacle. Like a coward. Varys had known what was going to happen and had been ill at the very thought of it, but the Master of Whisperers had gone anyway to preserve his image of a loyal member of the Small Council. Manly hadn't, proving his personal interest went way over his allegiance oath. Like today. The golden armour must have cost way over fifty thousand dragons, given that it was a customised set of Mark 5 battle-armour. In Varys mind, it was a large sum that would have been better employed elsewhere in war times.

"You. Lost. A. Tactical. Nuclear. Weapon." The Master of Whisperers weighted each word like he was addressing a very stupid child. Which considering the mental aptitudes of his interlocutor, wasn't that far from the truth.

Lord Manly Stokeworth visage should have paled in fear or started to make ridiculous excuses by that point. Instead, his placid and dull face became red with anger.

"Shut up Spider! It's your fault more than it is mine!"

"And how pray tell was it my fault, Lord Stokeworth?" Varys did his best to keep his tone pleasant and amused, a bit humorous even, when what he really did want was strangling with his bare hands this living insult to humanity's intelligence. Killing him could hardly make the average Westerosi IQ lower, at any rate!

"Was it my men who were charged to guard the facility in question? Was it my men who went to the taverns that night drinking and whoring instead of doing their jobs? Was it one of my men who sold the codes of the bunker for one thousand dragons? Or was one of my men responsible for the whole cover up to make sure nobody found out it had ever happened?"

"You should have seen it coming!"

Once more, Varys marvelled at the arrogance and the sense of self-righteousness coming from the idiot. At Pentos, an officer of Illyrio's guard that incompetent in his duties would have been flogged in public and then executed for bringing such shame to his line, his name the object of scorn and insults for one or two generations.

 _Here we promote them well over their capabilities. Or they stay where they are, ruining everything._

"If my memories are correct, Lord Stokeworth, your men were put in charge of taking control of this facility by Lord Lonmouth for the express purpose of not attracting attention. I delivered you plenty of weapons for the task, gave you a free hand to choose your men and a complete access to my information network in the Kaylar district. Sixty-two hours, my lord. Sixty-two hours of vigilance what all that was demanded of you before this part of the nuclear arsenal we deprived our crazy monarch was in the hands of the Army and the Navy loyal to the Crown Prince. Now it appears you and your men were unable to accomplish this and were made out fools by a middle-sized gang. You are lucky the other two hundred and ninety-nine weapons arrived safely at destination. Else I expect you would have a very different conversation with Lord Lonmouth and Lord Connington."

Lord Stokeworth narrowed his brown eyes and tried to adopt an intimidating posture. By all evidence, he had not thought Varys was aware of the exiled Lord of Griffin's Roost at King's Landing.

 _Yes, I know a lot of secrets, Lord Stokeworth. If I had wanted, you and Connington heads would be busy screaming on wildfire pyres. You can thank the Seven I do not like condemning anyone to that fate._

"Now, please remove yourself of my sight, while I contact the people charged to repair the terrible errors of your men."

"This isn't over, Spider!" Barked the Goldcloaks commander in a last huff of defiance, before harrying out of the office at a vigorous pace.

"Oh, but it is." Said Varys, alone in the privacy of his office.

The Lord Commander of the King's Landing Guard, primary police force of the planet, could boast, threaten and bluster all he wanted, his time at the top of the food chain had come to an end. This last mistake was just the crowning jewel in a polluted ocean of bribery and corruption. Manly Stokeworth had held his office for sixteen long years; under his watch the Goldcloaks had become a force so utterly corrupt and oblivious of its duties that in the poorest provinces of the megalopolis covering the planet, they were considered as a gang and a band of criminals by the outlaw opponents and the smallfolk.

Maybe the new King would replace this imbecile by a competent officer. Maybe not. One thing was sure, when the year 284 after the Conquest started, Lord Manly Stokeworth would no longer have a job at King's Landing.

In many ways, that this incompetent moron would be allowed to resign was a complete disgrace. Given the magnitude of his failures and his numerous misdemeanours, Stokeworth should have been put in front of an executioner and beheaded. Or burnt by wildfire, it was the trend this year. Varys knew it, his post as the Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency had allowed him to gather with his little mice and birds an extremely big and juicy case on the man.

But every man was not Lord Stokeworth, Lord and Master of a Stellar System the Westerosi strategists considered as the last step for any northern offensive to reach the capital. Not every lord had contributed as much as the Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks for the scheming and treacheries of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

Against these contributions, reigning on an empire of crime and debauchery, losing a nuke, the codes to activate it and ordering the murders of several hundred incorruptible officers were really lowly accusations. Now if only the imbecile had lost 'only' a nuke...there were also all these missing laser rifles, anti-tank launchers and battle-armours missing from the inventories. All in all, enough to mount quite a reign of terror in the illegal kingdom running under the one of the privileged and the powerful.

The Master of Whisperers tapped a long combination on his com unit. After two seconds, the image of a man with black hair and a slim-sinew constitution flashed on the screen on the opposite wall.

"Ser Alliser."

"Spider." Replied the black-uniformed man, throwing the first pique by not bothering to use Varys formal title.

"I trust you are aware of our little problem?" Asked Varys, knowing fully well Thorne had discovered the problem this late night. Varys had known it for three days, but admitting it in front of a peer of the Small Council would have undoubtedly raised several inquisitive questions.

"I am. My men have just finished interrogating one of the thieves your agents located. What he said was...illuminating."

Varys did his best to present his amused persona, although he had an urge to go to the toilets and vomit the content of his plentiful breakfast. Varys had plenty of drones, spyware and agents inside the Secret Police Blackcell facilities, and what Ser Alliser referred as 'interrogation' was purely and simply sadistic torture. For a gang member belonging to an operation having stolen enough to destroy a block of towers, it was somewhat understandable. For the five persons who had been put under the question before this one and had nothing whatsoever to do with it, it was anything but.

"I suppose it was not a coincidence the Blood Daggers chose this moment to attack?"

Located primarily in the underworld spreading under the Kaylar skyscrapers, the Blood Daggers was a minor gang compared to the crime empires existing in the core areas of the Flea Bottom's underground. Or in other less populous districts, to be honest. Assault, thievery, common drugs, prostitution, murders,...the classic gang, that never dared defying the authorities lest it bring the wrath of the Crown 'law enforcement' and the Secret Police on them.

Attacking an active military base, even if it had been one where less than one hundred Goldcloaks were present at peak hours, had been a brutal and unanticipated escalation in violence.

"No. The man did not know much, but there was a payment from an outside source and they had too good information on the defences system and positions. Their contact was a cloaked figure, male, Westerosi accent, gave them a data chip and three hundreds dragons, with a thousand more if they could do the job right. They didn't even know what was in the secure section, just thought it was a big bomb. Their client told them they could keep the loot, so nobody asked more questions."

"That doesn't narrow the list of culprits a lot." One thousand and three hundred dragons was a monumental sum for the unwashed and unemployed lowest of the low in King's Landing, whose coins rarely went over the Silver Stag. On the other hand, it was pocket change for someone with deep pockets.

King's Landing, the planet, not the capital city itself, was the home of sixteen billion people, which you had to add one more billion if the two moons orbiting it and the various space habitations were taken into account. If more than a tenth were innocent of any criminal activities, the Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency was ready to take a jump pack and throw himself from an orbital station for an adrenaline-intensive experience. Between the wealthy merchants and the Guilds sneaky manoeuvres, the Crown officers' ambitions and the lust for power every noble from the lowly knight to the Royal Family felt, there may be twenty or thirty million candidates with the funds to plan this attack. And it was a low estimate.

"No it didn't. So I gave the order for my men to go back with a platoon of sellswords and arrest all the bastards."

"All the Blood Daggers?" Inquired Varys, though he had been of course aware of the operation the moment Thorne mobilised his band of psychopaths hours ago. In his opinion, it had also been incredibly reckless, but the Master of the Secret Police had not asked for Varys opinion or for his benediction. Arresting the leadership of the gang would have been sensible, a well-timed strike to take the men-in-the-know, then replace them with his own little birds and mice. Thorne had risked unleashing a gang war, at a moment the Goldcloaks of said district were virtually decapitated.

In the end it had worked. Ser Alliser had struck hard, capturing close to six thousand people in the disgusting slums of Kaylar and had sent them all to Blackcell Prison, gang member affiliation or not. Their fate promised to be very unpleasant. Assuming said persons still lived as the moment this conversation was taking place.

"Yes. Any progress from your end? Dealing with that many scum and plebeians is going to take days."

"I'm afraid my little birds have not returned yet to sing in my ears."

It was a monumental lie, of course. Varys had had no more chance discovering the identity of the person who had decided to hire the Blood Daggers, this trail was long dead and cold, exploiting it was close to impossible. On the other hand, the ultimate destination of the nuclear stolen device was easier to find. His best men and women were currently tracking abandoned warehouse by warehouse to find the culprits. Five hours ago, they had narrowly missed them at a long abandoned tank factory and arresting six gang members. Varys had a feeling the next time the fleeing party was not going to be so lucky.

"Well tell them to sing and quickly." Said Thorne, with all the warmness one expected of an extremely violent winter on the coldest planets of the Northern Sector. "Else Connington might put you on the target list of Downfall."

 _And who would be the one to 'advice' him to do that, Ser?_ Thought Varys as the conversation was brutally cut on the other end.

It was at this time Varys really hated Thorne. Not because the Master of the Secret Police was a dark, grim, humourless man. Not because he saw everyone beneath him, or used his seventy million enforcers and informers across the Crown Sector like a butcher upon a herd of animals. No, the upsetting reason was that no matter the circumstances, Thorne was unable to end a conversation without a death threat or lapidary remarks pushing you to murder.

 _And the worst part is his absolute loyalty to Rhaegar. The Crown Prince is hardly going to dismiss him once Downfall is executed and the coronation will be celebrated. Speaking of which..._

The Master of Whisperers pressed a new combination on his personal com.

"Is she there?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let her enter."

A weak alarm sounded, a panel hidden behind a quite expensive tapestry slid laterally, letting enter in his office a young woman with silver hair and golden eyes. Unlike Lord Stokeworth, the new arrival had not bothered to dress properly. No bras or other underwear. A blue mini-skirt so short only the essentials were covered, exposing sublime long legs and more. A red top giving a prime access to her generous assets. Enough make-up on the face to form a sublime mask of cosmetics. Silver heels so high ninety-nine per cent of the feminine population would be unable to walk with them. And an odour of sex followed her, the evident cause being small tendrils of white fluids descending from under her skirt to her legs.

To call a cat a cat, the woman had the appearance of a whore and seemed to revel in it. Which was why the appearances were sometimes leading to very dangerous assumptions.

"My Lord."

"Sor. I trust you have the list I wanted?"

"Yes. I hope the award will be at the measure of my performance with Lord Connington?"

"Naturally. Removed the violet lenses?"

The infatuation of Connington for his beloved Crown Prince was not a secret for Varys, and the Lord of Griffin's Roost only slept with silver-haired and violet-eyed courtesans or prostitutes.

"Passing for a wealthy dragonseed these days in Flea Bottom is an invitation to an early grave. Or a collective rape. People aren't really fond of impressments. Twenty deaths when I passed there, looked like a press gang beat down a man to death and his friends brought back-up."

"Business as usual." It was pretty cynical, but Flea Bottom since the start of the war was in a spiral of riots and murders, courtesy of the Navy and the Army not being there to maintain order and the Goldcloaks being utterly useless. "And the list?"

"Pretty much as you expected. The Alchemists. The members of the Small Council, with a few exceptions: you, Thorne, Pycelle and Velaryon."

"The Master of Assassins?"

"Will be executed. The Prince of Dragonstone has tried to convince him, but the Old Death refused. Loyal to his King to the death."

The Master spy grumbled. Removing the head of this order was not going to simplify his task, the Assassins were a nebulous entity at the best of times, and anticipating their acts was a true challenge at the best of times.

Varys took a moment to touch his jaw in a gesture of contemplation he would not have done in front of anyone else. But Sor wasn't everyone. She had been with him for the last six years, and it was one of his special agents' interventions on a slaver ship that had released her from the miserable life of a pleasure slave. Varys knew he could count on her until death, and the Master of Whisperers had no intention of betraying that trust. Loyalty had to be rewarded, not punished, and not any agent could have managed to reach Connington that intimately after all.

"Princess Elia Martell, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and Ser Jaime Lannister are to be taken alive and sent to a secure facility somewhere in the Duskendale System."Continued Sor, her had touching delicately the make-up on her face to be sure the cosmetic coloration held. "The King's capture has been authorised, but his survival is not of utmost priority. And the High Septon is to die."

"Excuse me?"

"The High Septon is to die." Repeated calmly Sor, the life or death of the Faith leader touching her externally about as much as the crossing of a street did. Perhaps less. "Connington didn't know the full reasoning, but red-hair has received the orders, the Crown Prince wants the Septon dead as soon as the guns are drawn. The official reason distributed to their lackeys of the news will be that the Faith was trying to rearm and muster a new Faith Militant."

The disdain in Sor's voice made clear how unintelligent and gullible the common smallfolk in the street would have to be to accept this outlandish story.

"Targaryen news and their employees have told more blatant lies in the last year." Noted Varys. "Although I agree with your assessment. The High Septon has tens of thousands followers in his Great Sept on Rhaenys' Moon. If the Faith really wanted a Faith Militant, he would have recruited far more than five hundred bodyguards. More probably Rhaegar wants one of his puppets for the job. Who will be charged of the deed?"

"That wasn't in the Griffin's data banks."

"Too bad. Foreign assassins?" It was more an affirmation than a question. The Crown Prince had already used such methods in the past, and given that Connington had been temporarily exiled there...

"Faceless Men are too expensive, but Essos is full of killers. One of the best in Lys or Tyrosh is likely." Agreed Sor.

"He will have to be among the best." Murmured Varys.

Rhaenys's Moon was no fortified planet, but its shrines and the Great Sept built on its surface forbid orbital weapons use and open invasion, unless one wanted to begin a full-scale religious conflict. Assassinating the leader of the Faith on a ground where thousands men, women and children were ready to give their life to protect him was no easy objective. Assassinating the High Septon with no clue who was behind it would be even more difficult.

 _Should I stop the attempt?_

If the assassination attempt was made and the role of Rhaegar in it was discovered, failure or not...the consequences would be terrible for the Targaryen dynasty. Until the rebels signed a peace treaty, any cease-fire could be denounced and hostilities resume; moreover no one had ever accused Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Jon Arryn of stupidity. If the Crown Sector and the planets where Faith support was significant erupted in insurrections and rebellions, the Rebellion was going to adapt its offensives in consequence.

The issues at hand were that his total of information was drastically limited, no idea of the when, who or how. Plus Rhaegar, in good Targaryen, could simply decide to send more assassins next time, and decided to get rid of an interventionist Master of Whisperers by the same occasion.

 _Decisions, decisions. What to do?_

The Prince of Dragonstone was no mental giant, but Rhaegar was usually taking collected decisions, even if they were taken to accomplish dubious prophecies and goals that made the common of mortals scratch their heads. There was a great probability the assassination was going to work as planned, although the aftermath was going to see plenty of tensions.

"Continue your assignment, Sor. Your job is excellent, and I am feeling far more secure knowing you watch Connington. The five hundred dragons will be moved to your account by the end of the day."

"I obey." Chuckled the young silver-haired woman. "Do you want Connington's genetic material?"

Her employer laughed, a sound which had nothing in common with the simpers and the cajoling done when in presence of the Royal Court.

"Nice initiative, my dear. Yes, we might as well collect it. I have no plans for the Connington line for the future, but it's always good to-"

A strident alarm screamed and what Varys was about to say was lost in the tumult.

On the left of his large wooden desk, an ancient com painted in red sounded.

Varys frowned. This line was not one of the five putting him in communication with his subordinates in this building, thorough the planet or in high orbit. It was a direct line to the Red Keep itself. Not to the King himself no, 'just' the operational centre. But the scarce times it sounded were rarely to announce your name day or congratulate you for a job well-done.

"Yes?" Announced in his courtesan-tone the Master of Whisperers. The human interlocutor to answer was in full-panic mode. In the background, shouts were uttered and alarms barked with their maximum of intensity. All giving a nice taste of the complete chaos which came when a command found itself at war.

"The King's Landing System is under Code Omega-Four! Nuclear attack detected!"

* * *

 **Lord Richard Lonmouth, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System**

The rays of sun lightening the planet and the structures were an awesome spectacle. Everywhere a human eye could go, the capital planet was encircled by thousands of orbital constructions and hundreds of structures built for so many goals it was truly impossible to take a count. Massive rotund farms-installations built in the sole and only purpose were to provide a tiny portion of the food the billions of people living below required to live another day. Satellites and drones of communication for the great information giant known as Galactic Targaryen News. Factories and industries owned by Dragon Incorporated and Targaryen Free Enterprises that had been deemed too polluting even for the low standards of King's Landing to be operated on a telluric planet. Huge asteroids that had been carved decades ago to serve whatever goal their buyer had wanted. Large living habitats, from the grey and ugly looking quarters of the low-paid space workers to the luxurious residences of Guild masters and wealthy courtesans. Scores of massive shipyards, building anything from the smallest starfighter to the gigantic mining vessels which routinely went in foreign systems to drill and extract raw minerals. There were spires for the believers of the Seven who believed praying in orbit, far from any grounding and decadent order, was the way to venerate the Faith. There were scaffoldings everywhere, hundreds of thousand void workers building or stripping down tons of materials for projects ordered by the architects and engineers of the Targaryen dynasty. Yes, the orbital surroundings had been sometimes compared to a gigantic and order-less maze, and there was some justice to it.

And then there were the ships.

Merchant hulls coming from varied foreign systems and far-away regions of the Galaxy: Braavos, Pentos, Lys, Volantis and sometimes as far away as the other side of the Essos Quadrant like the Empire of Yi-Ti. Yachts and comfortable vessels reserved to wealthy individuals. Transport of troops stopping there before going to their new affectations. Freighters carrying million tons of cargo such as food, fuel and ore stored in their gigantic hulls. Passenger liners arriving or leaving the capital because their affairs appealed. Small starfighters patrolling the system, ensuring no enemy attack was in preparation in the outer edges of the system. Pilgrim and missionaries coming to pray at Baelor's Great Sept on Rhaenys' moon. Custom small shuttles, doing their best to catch the incessant smuggling and traffics reigning in the King's Landing System. The Crown Sector warships, deeply recognisable with their trident-shaped edge forming their Nova armament, the dragon heads decorating the batteries, and the massive disc forming their other extremity.

One glance was enough to remark there were too many ships. It was far from an unusual occurrence, the area of space between the capital planet and its two moons was notoriously crowded at the best of times. And from the bay of the yacht-restaurant _Golden Fleece_ , Richard Lonmouth and his co-conspirators were able to absorb the view and eat a divine banquet.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Murmured Lord Lucerys Velaryon, polishing absently of the hand his perfectly brushed silver hair while he looked at the spectacle. "I'm coming here once or twice per week only to admire the view."

"Are you sure my lord it's not to profit from the table too?" Asked humorously Lord Gyles Rosby. The Crownlord hairs were as white as the Velaryon were silver, but unlike the Master of Driftmark, these were a result of age, not genetics. Lord Gyles was also in Lord Lonmouth's opinion the worst man dressed in this room, having made the displacement with a red cloth which looked like the cousin of a toga and a woman's dress.

"Guilty as charged, my lord!" Smiled Lord Velaryon. "But I trust you appreciated it today, no?"

Richard and the three other men at the table found themselves nodding in appreciation at Lord Velaryon's command. Honestly, all the invitees at this table had done more than 'appreciate' the lunch that had been proposed.

The menu Richard had just eaten had been at the same level of 'magnificent'. In fact, one part of his brain had been so enraptured by it he was ready to acknowledge it as the food of the Gods! Or at the very least good enough to tempt saints.

In entrance, the oysters of Crab Island and the white sturgeon caviar of Driftmark had simply been a delight on the tongue, especially conjugated with fine herbs of the Willow Wood cultures. After this had come the Foie Gras and its simple woods strawberry cream, simple and original, supported on a black truffle purée.

The third meal had presented the three great specialties of House Celtigar's oceans: the red crab with his Dornish spices and little legumes, the lobster steamed with eggs and tomato wine, and of course the supreme crayfish and his cognac sauce. From the sea food they had passed to the meat: poached chicken of Cornfield with honey and asparagus sauce.

Fifth had been the oh-so-tempting Western filet mignon and the mushrooms rigorously and selectively grown on House Pemford's possessions. To conveniently let the stomach recover, the next course had consisted in plates of goat cheese from the Reach with Summer Island fruits creams.

Finally, seventh and last, but certainly not least, the chocolate farandole, an amazing display of nine different chocolate of the Seven Kingdoms in different forms, from the hard black to the soft praline.

And to accompany these superb seven courses, the bottles of wine had been of the highest regard. A 183' White of Castle Rhone from the Cider Hall System, a 275' Red of Montségur put in bottle by the Rowans winemakers and a 204' Gold from the Domaine Du Velours, one of the Arbor most famous wineries. Plus the other spirits and liqueurs served between or before the meals.

Lord Richard feared he wasn't going to enter his power-armour tomorrow, but by the Seven it had been worth it.

 _Fortunately it's Lord Velaryon who owns the Golden Fleece and everything going with it. Paying for five menus at this restaurant would be enough for me to re-equip an entire company of my men plus tanks! Seven Hells, maybe more! We are officially rationing the food after all, and the food prices have never been so high these last months!_

"Oh, you will never hear a complaint from me on the subject of the menu, my lord." Announced Ser Jaremy Rykker. The young knight currently serving as the Goldcloaks officer for the Dragon Gate of King's Landing was a bit red-faced from all the alcohol and liquors that had been drunk in the last hours, but Richard supposed they were all in that case. "But I can't stop to think you invited us all aboard this ship for more than gorging us on your excellent food and raid your wine cellars."

"Ah, yes. It's possible my motives weren't as pure as I implied when I contacted you." The theatrical sigh of the Lord of the Tides was purely for show and did not fool anyone around the table.

"But as you well know Ser Jaremy, our beloved sovereign Aerys has taken the bad habit in these trying times to monitor as many conversations as humanly possible, and we have to take certain precautions. Lord Varys and Ser Alliser Thorne are on our side, but who knows how many spies report directly to the sovereign."

"You will hear no complain from me too." Grumbled Lord Caspian Pyle, in his formal gold uniform barded with decorations and citations. "Yesterday, Aerys invited me for the burning of one of my own captains! Because according to his 'trusted sources' this man was a traitor and a craven! Truth to be told, I'm sure all Ser Valon did was speaking one bawdy story when he was drunk and..."

The scar on the face of the fifty-plus years old man twitched in anger, and a gesture imitating with some justice the famous lightening of a wildfire pyre was produced. The other four men winced. Ser Valon's death had surely been horrible. That it could happen to them personally at any time dampened considerably the mood.

"The madman is delusional." Said Lord Gyles, emitting a slight cough.

 _Funny, my lord, I didn't think you told Aerys that at the last court opening. If memory serves, you were clapping and thanking him for his generosity._

"He has been for a long time." Affirmed Lord Caspian Pyle with a profound grimace of distaste.

Inwardly, Richard felt something like piety. As a commander of men that had fought at the Trident and on several other battles of the war, Richard himself had rarely been in King's Landing this last year. Now with the benefit of hindsight, being on the frontlines did not look like a bad thing. You were shot. Your ships were shot. You had the duty to face enraged masses of Northmen and Stormlanders wanting to gut you and place your head in their private collection. But at least against the rebels, you knew usually who your enemies were.

Lord Caspian Pyle however, had not had this chance, being stranded in the capital system since the beginning of the hostilities, and the fleet commander had never pretended to be one of the King's greatest supporters. Aside from his planetary lordship of Pyle, a system at the frontier of the Storm Sector, Lord Caspian Pyle held the rank of Royal Admiral...a military position that in this war had been more a curse than a benediction.

The Royal Fleet of King's Landing had been considerably raided by Jon to launch the offensive in the River Sector and consolidate the garrisons in the Storm Sector after Ashford. After the defeat in the Stoney Sept System and the serious loyalist losses caused by it, more ships of the lines, battlecruisers and escorts had been transferred from the capital command to the offensive forces. The last straw had been when Rhaegar had returned from Dorne, Lord Pyle having to relinquish all the heavy units save one or two battlecruisers. The Royal Admiral was now in command of a large fleet of light and scout cruisers, with hundreds of fighters, forts and weapon platforms for support. Hardly the crowning achievement of a career, and supreme inconvenience he had to support Aerys chaotic orders at the same time.

Lord Lucerys Velaryon on the other hand, as the High Admiral, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark and Commander of the Deep Space Fleet of Dragonstone, had been able to avoid the folly gripping the court. Aerys, in the midst of his frequent crises of madness, had become more and more insistent that Dragonstone had to be held at all costs.

Against who the system-fortress had to be held was a mystery to all save Aerys.

Lord Lucerys had had to manoeuvre several times his fleet to avoid being caught in the cosmic storms plaguing the Narrow Void, but apart from the occasional pirate wanting to prey on the trade coming from King's Landing, no threat of any kind had manifested.

"Ahem. Yes. This is why Downfall is going to be launched in about forty hours."

"So soon?" The question from Jaremy Rykker was betraying a non-feinted incredulity. "We were supposed to have six days left!"

"I'm sure Prince Rhaegar has excellent reasons..." The voice of Lord Gyles Rosby was soft and the manners those of an accomplished follower.

 _Yes, I'm sure there were. Like the ones which existed when he kidnapped and raped a Lord Paramount's daughter. Or the one where he put all the fleet in orbit around the planet of Trident because there was no way the rebels were going to ambush us. And the Rebels wonder why so many of the Crownlords are staying loyal to the Targaryens. What an ass-kisser..._

"Indeed he has. According to the latest messenger-ship I received today, the Rebels are refusing in block all our offers, the cease-fire as well as the proposition to hold the peace talks at Maidenpool. It's possible if Aerys isn't removed that we will not be able to establish negotiations...and the rebels are fortifying their positions as we speak."

 _Not surprising. The dragon words have no value anymore north of the Trident, and the terms Rhaegar proposed are good...for us. Not so much for them._

"My lord, I agree with what you've said, but we simply aren't ready! Lord Commander Stokeworth requisitioned this morning two thousand more men to search something a gang has stolen, and each Gate Commander has not had the time to assure all the men will turn loyal when Downfall is executed."

"If you're unable to do your duty, Ser Rykker, you can discharge your duties to your second-in-command." Sneered the Lord of Rosby.

The noble visage of Ser Jaremy went redder, and his sword arm went to his side, fortunately not finding the ceremonial vibro-sword that had been left in the restaurant cloakroom.

"I'm prepared to do my duty, Lord Rosby." Acidly replied the Goldcloaks officer. The 'unlike you' was left unsaid but nonetheless heard. Lord Gyles Rosby had never served in any military service whatsoever, using his sickly constitution as a pretext. "I'm just warning you that advancing that much Downfall is going to disrupt a lot of the planning. Planning we all agreed to in the last days."

"I'm afraid I have to concur." The voice of Royal Admiral Pyle was composed, but if his eyes had been able to throw lightning, they would have done so. "The whole operation needs to be extremely well-prepared and all the officers in charge fully briefed on it. Forty hours to inform all of them and coordinate their actions is not going to be enough. We court disaster."

"I tend to share your views, my lords, but I am not the one who has been given the authority to launch Downfall." Reminded them the High Admiral. "This honour belongs to Lord Jon Connington."

A couple of years ago, knowing this would have cheered up Lord Richard Lonmouth. Now? Not at all. Jon Connington, his friend, had changed. Returned from the Free Cities where he was still supposed to be in exile, the dispossessed Lord of Griffin's Roost was now a colder man who rarely smiled or let his guard down in public anymore. There were occasions his friend came out of his cold carapace, but these times were increasingly rare. Questioning Rhaegar motivations in front of Jon only resulted in being severely reprimanded, if not outright insulted.

"I think if we speak in one united voice, we can convince Lord Jon to delay things a bit." Proposed Richard in appeasing tone, sipping some of the gold wine in his crystal glass. "We have to face some facts, my lords. We aren't ready. If we miss our objective, there won't be a second chance to act."

"Indeed." The smile of Lord Pyle could have chased the clouds of pollution from King's Landing skies for a second or two. "I'm sure Aerys is searching for more 'traitors' for his pet Alchemists to burn at his next spectacle in the arena. Since the Rebels aren't going to cooperate and surrender tomorrow I suggest we-"

None of the four nobles would know how Royal Admiral Pyle have terminated this sentence. A bright flash had just illuminated the bay of the Golden Fleece, partially blinding the eyes of every man and woman present in the restaurant.

Seconds after, the Golden Fleece itself was shaken like a huge fist had chosen this moment to strike it, and the civilian shields of the yacht were activated in catastrophe.

"What in the Seven Hells was that?" Blustered Jaremy Rykker after several seconds and the effects of this unanticipated brightness dissipated. "Are we under attack?"

A waiter who had been ranging some glasses had stumbled and was now contemplating the glass ruin at his feet. Several members of the staff had likewise fallen or lost their equilibrium.

From the speakers, the voice of a panicked man, certainly the captain of the ship they were all aboard, resonated across the shocked restaurant passengers.

"Lord Velaryon, a nuclear attack has been detected! The defences of the King's Landing System are switching to Code Omega-Four!"

Now that the sudden explosion of light had dissipated, Lord Lonmouth turned to the bay...and what he saw made him shudder and gasp in stupefaction like everyone else.

Debris. There was a lot of debris. In a section of the orbital installations right in front of the _Golden Fleece_ , something had shredded, torn apart and distorted the fragile order existing above King's Landing. Debris. Richard saw a scout cruiser had literally been cut in half, the time to bring its particle shields and other defences clearly insufficient.

 _Or maybe its defences were just not enough. By the Seven...how many orbital stations did we just lose?_

There were ruins of multiple 'portable' shipyards. Hundreds of scaffoldings had collapsed, their components propelled everywhere in the void. The void was preventing flames from spreading out, but there were countless secondary explosions rocking the structures, destroying millions dragons worth of investment. Thousands of men and women were trying their chance in the emergency lifeboats, their launch creating thousands of light streaks towards the greater trader and military ships that had been caught outside the blast. The poorest workers, less fortunate, were launching themselves outside their workplaces in the vacuum to avoid the destruction storm. With their spacesuits for sole protection.

 _Looks like the safety procedures were really ignored for too long_ , thought the Storm lord. _Everyone is panicking and no one is following proper procedures. The Seven only knows what would have happened if this was the attack of a Rebel fleet!_

"A nuclear explosion..." Lord Gyles Rosby coughed loudly before continuing. "It's absurd...absolutely absurd..."

"Lord Pyle. In your opinion, where did the device explode?" Demanded the Lord of the Tides, ignoring the aurochs-like denial expressed by the Master of Rosby.

"I don't know, High Admiral." Said Lord Caspian, transformed instantly into his military persona." The confusion and lack of training concerning the Omega procedures is creating a monumental havoc. I told Aerys and the Small Council we needed to conduct exercises and prepare the system in case a true emergency happened, but I was overruled."

 _And now we're seeing the result. You can say it, Admiral. The dragons screwed up._

Ser Jaremy Rykker was far less restrained in his situation report.

"What a bloody mess!"

"Thank you Commander." Declared frostily Lord Lucerys before turning to one of his bodyguards waiting silently behind him. "Bring me a holo-com. I need to talk to Lord Connington and the other members of the Council."

"High Admiral." Intervened Richard, finally putting his illusionary fingers on something that gnawed at his mind. "Was not _Dragon One_ in the middle of the stations we have just lost?"

"So?" The question of Lord Gyles was way too rhetorical. "We lost one military station. Big deal. Or you have not noticed the dozens of others we must have lost! Including _Golden Cow_ , a place where my first cousin lived if anybody cares!"

"That's not what Lord Lonmouth is trying to say." By the tenor of Ser Rykker's words, the condescending and imbecilic comments of Lord Rosby were really putting him into a bad mood. "And there is more important than your first cousin, my lord."

"Yes." Declared soberly Lord Pyle. " _Dragon One_ was our main command centre to control the orbital defences, and thousands of our best and brightest were aboard."

 _Which means the highest echelons of the King's Landing military forces have just been decapitated. I wonder..._

"Is it possible the responsible of this attack were only targeting _Dragon One_?" Asked Lucerys Velaryon with a grim face, as his bodyguard posed on the freshly cleared away table a brand new holo-com and the Master of Driftmark tried to contact the Councilmen. Clearly the High Admiral had arrived to the same unpleasant conclusion as Richard Lonmouth.

"But why? Why assault this control station?" The visage of Ser Jaremy Rykker was deeply perturbed. "Attacking _Dragon One_ does not make the missile and laser platforms inoperable. _Dragon Two_ and _Dragon Three_ can serve this role as well, and in one or two hours all the codes and priorities will have been re-routed through the secondary stations. The Capital fleet is mostly intact too! No external enemy is going to be fray a path in our defences in that interval!"

"Except the enemy is already inside our defences."

Three men had just appeared on the holo-com of Lucerys Velaryon, their angry and determined visages showing they had already been speaking before the lords aboard the _Golden Fleece_ joined the conversation.

Richard Lonmouth knew them. The first was Jon, a war figure in his red and white power battle-armour, though the marks of his formal dismissal by Aerys were still visible on it. The second was Lord Manly Stokeworth, so fat the Goldcloaks Lord Commander was looking on the verge of exploding his heavy golden battle-armour. And the third was the Master of the Secret Police, Ser Alliser Thorne himself, black clothes, as grim and brooding as ever. No, no it was not exact. Alliser had murder in his eyes, and other two were...troubled.

"Is there something wrong, Ser Alliser?"

"These two imbeciles have just launched Downfall without warning anybody!" Growled one of the most loathed and feared man of the King's Landing system.

 _No, no. It has to be a mistake. Jon would warn me. We are friends..._

But one look in the holo-com was enough to let his assurances crumble. Lord Manly Stokeworth wasn't protesting. Nor was Jon.

"You have done WHAT?" Shouted Lord Caspian Pyle.

"I have launched Downfall." The tone employed by Connington could have frozen the arid landscapes of Dorne and was not sorry at all. "I felt I had no recourse-"

"Because you lost your fucking nuclear bomb and Elia Martell told you to go fuck yourself!" Interrupted Thorne with enough venom to poison millions of people.

"You...it was your bomb that just made a mess of MY stations and MY fleet?" Admiral Pyle had just started to lose his calm, Richard realised. The Royal Admiral of King's Landing was spluttering in anger and his fury levels were skyrocketing by the second.

"No it was not MY bomb." Said Jon in a fixed expression. "That Dornish whore stole it and placed it aboard Dragon One. When I told her to surrender her daughter to my custody, she detonated it and launched her own coup. But it's no longer relevant."

"Of course this is relevant!" Protested Lord Lucerys Velaryon with something like the fires of extinct dragons animating his reactions. "Is there anything we should know or will we discover more dark secrets when we will dig the rubble after the battle?"

Lord Manly Stokeworth made a vigorous nod of denial and was about to pronounce more platitudes when Alliser Thorne left out his second bomb.

"Lord Connington here has sent new order to one of your deep space battlecruisers, the _Swift Argent_ I believe. The patrol of the warship in the Narrow Void is cancelled and the _Swift Argent_ is to intercept the private ship carrying Princess Rhaenys Targaryen to Dorne..."

For a quarter of a minute, the four guests and their hosts went silent as their brain refused to compute with the information the Secret Police Commander had provided.

"YOU DID WHAT?" The scream of Lord Velaryon could have woken up the dead.

"No need to shout so loudly, our ears are not-" The sentence of Lord Manly was cut without any care.

"I am Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships, High Admiral of Westeros, Lord of the Galactic Tides, Master of Driftmark and Governor of Dragonstone! Who exactly are you to give orders to my own ships, Connington! Especially going behind by back! Who do you think you are!"

"The future Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Prince Rhaegar's Hand!" But knowing Jon much better than any person save perhaps Rhaegar, Lord Richard saw the Lord of Griffin's Roost was less than assured of his own invulnerability.

 _Perhaps he understands that with failures of that magnitude, everybody is...expendable._

"If Rhaegar gives you the Paramountcy after such a fiasco, then your dear Crown Prince is as insane as his father!" Lord Caspian Pyle retorted.

"We will see, won't we?" Jon's voice did not send a lot of warmth. And the...grimace...he made was honestly deranging. "I have Prince Aegon, Prince Viserys, the Queen mother, her newborn daughter Daenerys and Ser Jaime Lannister in my custody. Ser Arthur Dayne has Baela and Visenya, the spawn of the wolf-bitch. My forces and the Goldcloaks are taking control of the Red Keep as we speak. Soon Aerys is going to be arrested and Princess Rhaenys recovered. Crown Prince Rhaegar is going to become King. Who do you think he will listen to? You or me?"

 _It's not about you or us, Jon. It's you and the thousands of people that have been murdered by your fault. The coup had planned for less than a hundred deaths..._

And on this dramatic tirade, the figures of Lord Manly Stokeworth and Jon Connington disappeared from the holo-com. Not that the images replacing them were much better. It seems that in his haste to put the capital's heart under martial law, Jon had gotten very zealous. From the cameras Thorne had put to their disposal, the Goldcloaks, the Gold Fists, the Targaryen sworn knights and the Dornish Special Forces were fighting among the buildings of the capital city itself. The familiar shapes of Salamander 280-type tanks were in action, blasting away hundreds of soldiers with their cannons. Ground-support aircraft launched their missiles to blow away skyscrapers.

It was not a peaceful coup. This was civil war.

"Ser Alliser?" Asked Ser Jaremy Rykker, who had the expression of a knight desperately trying to grab the last ties of sanity existing in this whirlwind of chaos. "Any news from the other Councillors?"

"No. The corridors of Maegor's citadel are...bloody. Between the King, the Princess and the Connington forces fighting each other, none of my agents have managed to report to me. Communications with the Red Keep are cut."

"Who was out when the coup was launched?" Demanded Richard.

 _Perhaps if a person of sufficient rank is on the field, someone can tell Jon to stop this bloodbath..._

But the answer from Thorne only dashed his hopes.

"Varys. I know he had a conversation with this ox of Stokeworth in his headquarters before..."

 _Before Jon and Stokeworth decided to pull the trigger._

The Master of Whisperers was resourceful, and Lord Lonmouth did not doubt of his survival. Alas, being Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency did not give a lot of ground troops at all. Which was why they were in need right now to establish authority.

"Do what you can to investigate, Ser Alliser." Sighed Lord Velaryon. "The carnage has advanced too much to be stopped now."

"By your leave, my lord."

The holo-com saw Thorne's image disappear, leaving only the images of the street-battles being fought on the world below.

"Admiral Pyle."

"High Admiral?"

"Direct all your ships to conduct search and rescue operations."

"What do we do about Connington?" Asked Rykker with the look of a man who loved nothing better than to put a laser shot in the skull of Griffin's Roost exiled lord. Lord Lucerys Velaryon answered with a very nasty smile.

"Nothing."

"But-" Tried to speak Lord Rosby.

"I said we do nothing to help or fight him." The glare of the Lord of the Galactic Tides was very threatening. "Is that clear? It's evident at this hour Connington has received special forces to execute Downfall, forces we have never been informed of. Jon Connington has refused to coordinate with us or warn us in advance of his plan. He will sink or swim on his own merits."

"This is the behaviour of a coward." Sneered Lord Gyles. "One would almost think-"

"Thank you, Lord Rosby." Snapped Lord Lucerys, making a sign of the hand to his bodyguards in the back of the room. The two massive guards dragged Lord Gyles by the arms and led him out of the room.

"Where were we... ah, yes. Regain your commands, my lords, and do your best to save the maximum of victims of this abominable act of terror. Whoever emerges on top, Princess Elia Martell or Jon Connington, we will have the Royal Fleet to deal with them."

Richard let the High Admiral give his commands in something like a daze. As Lord Lucerys had said, it was sometimes to recover something from this disaster. But his thoughts were not in the situation developing on the planet or on the devastated orbital stations. No, Richard thoughts were how badly he had been deceived by Jon Connington...and Rhaegar Targaryen.

 _How? How did we get there? Did I truly know you, Jon? Was it the power? Why?_

 _Was it for that damn cursed throne?_

There was only thing Richard could tell after such a disaster. Taking the 204' Gold bottle, Lord Lonmouth drank the wine remaining in one go.

"What a clusterfuck."

* * *

 **Janos Slynt, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System**

Janos back ached against the extra-concrete wall. His head ached. His feet ached. His hands ached. All his body ached.

 _What...happened?_

Janos had difficulties to see his hands. Tearing part of his cloak to clean up his face, the Goldcloaks lieutenant realised his eyes weren't the problem. The entire street was clouded in dust and debris. The lights flashed out. Sparks came out of what had to be a power cable. To his left, an entire pan of wall collapsed, creating more dust.

Janos coughed. There was too much dust.

 _What happened?_

Janos tried to stand up, but his legs refused to obey. Fear gripped his mind. Was he crippled? But no, he saw his legs move, coming out more debris and spreading more dust. Janos coughed again. The pain in his body was lessening. Pushing and groaning, he managed to slowly stand up on his feet.

The effort was almost too much, and Janos had to lean on the same wall again to not fall. A few seconds passed, and Janos felt better. His back and his legs hurt, but it was bearable. The wall wasn't necessary anymore, he could stand on his own. Hesitantly, Janos made a step after another, looking at the spectacle of devastation surrounding him.

 _Where is my rifle? I thought I had it in my hands..._

The Go29 was an ugly and unreliable thing, but it was the sole weapon left to him. After several efforts to survey the debris, Janos found his laser rifle under an unoriginal door that had seen better days. Examining the batteries and the others parts of his weapon, the King's Landing officer sighed in relief as everything seemed to be working as expected. The last test would be when the rifle would be fired...hopefully a long time from now.

 _But it's not like you have any choice, eh Janos? Used all your grenades, didn't you?_

Janos turned the corner of the street...and crouched, slightly withdrawing on the limited protection of the abandoned street... And then lucidity came back entirely. His memories flooded back.

 _The tank. It was the tank that slaughtered us._

Janos knew the model. A Salamander type 296. The smallest tank in the Royal Army arsenal. When Janos had made his demand to join the army, he had wanted to be a tank man. He had read everything that was available on tanks in the library two shops away from his father's butchery. Given that a smallfolk library had never access to the great tactical and militaries treaties, most of the information had been on the Salamander. 41 tons, 7.8 metres long, and a plasma gun of 75.7 millimetres produced by Dragon Incorporated. With a maximum speed of 25 kilometres per hour, a front protection of one hundred durasteel plate millimetres, the Salamander had always been considered an infantry tank, and one of the lightest among the Seven Sectors of Westeros.

 _Not that it made me much good. Not the right connections and the right background to enter the army..._

Easy to destroy...if you had mortars, a tank, some artillery or aerial support. Janos and his men had had none of this. Just Go29 rifles and old plasma grenades.

 _Did we manage to beat it?_

Janos turned his head around the corner for a few seconds. There were huge holes in the tank everywhere, but this would not be the first time a tank had survived an assault able to pulverise a platoon. The first thing Janos and his men had learnt in the last hours was that a tank was way more resistant than flesh. The human screams when plasma touched flesh...

 _Where are my men?_

The buildings were in ruin. The main street of Flea Bottom that they had taken from the Iron Gate garrison was littered with craters and ton of rubble, with the damaged Salamander in the middle of it. Windows were in ruins. The few supraglass that went into these cheap constructions had not survived the explosions and the shockwaves. None of the smallfolk were coming out of their refuge and shelters. Either dead or not trusting the 'mercy' of the winners.

Janos didn't blame them. They wanted to live. He wanted the same thing. Janos didn't want his kids to live without their father and have only the meagre pittance of the royal allocations to survive.

Janos men wanted the same thing too but it had not saved them. Tom laid smashed along a wall, his entire body a bloody mess. There was there or four that were blocked under the tank itself. Kan, Remy, Philip...all dead. Janos stopped crouching and advanced to see the carnage, struggling to not vomit while more and more corpses came into view.

 _My friends...I'm sorry..._

And suddenly, a soldier emerged from a nearby alley like a reaper.

"Lieutenant."

"By the Seven, Deem!" Hissed Slynt, who had raised his rifle to shoot the newcomer and was now lowering it again. "Don't surprise me like that!"

Allar Deem was perhaps the worst of the men Janos had had the misfortune to meet in his years serving in the City Watch of King's Landing. Not because he was corrupt or rapid to take bribes from every shop in Flea Bottom. Every man wearing the gold cloak and wanting to help his family did that.

No, Sergeant Deem was a complete monster. Janos knew Deem had killed at least twenty men, including three of his fellow Goldcloaks. The only reason Deem had not been executed for his crimes was because he was someone's pet murderer higher up in the Iron Gate's hierarchy.

Janos had hoped that for once, Deem would be useful today. For a true battle. Killing was pretty much the same anyway, right?

Wrong. The moment the tank had come, Deem had disappeared. Killer in the night, but when the moment came to kill an enemy who had the firepower to shoot back, the reality had been revealed. Deem was really a coward. And now he was back. Deem was back and all the platoon save Janos were dead.

 _My men are dead and the coward comes back..._

"They're beyond help, Lieutenant." 'And so are you if you oppose me'. Janos had not heard the words be spoken, but the meaning was clear. "I'm getting out of here."

"You want to desert?" Janos knew at the moment Deem was really mad. Desertion was one of the rare crimes under Aerys that didn't deserve the wildfire pyre.

No, if you deserted, you were crucified, and then, after hours of suffering, the Alchemist executing you lightened the wildfire under your ass.

"It's only desertion if we're caught."

 _They know all your hideouts, Deem. They know where your bank accounts are. They will know the moment you break your leash. They don't want a rabid dog in liberty._

"Goodbye, Lieutenant Slynt, it has not been a pleasure to serve under your command."

But it was not Janos problem anymore, and as Deem began to race westwards, Janos realised Deem's desertion was unimportant to him personally.

 _You let us to die; you can hang for all I care._

Janos felt himself grimace. Being an officer placed the duty to guide your men. Looking down the street, there was absolutely no movement.

 _They're all dead. Except Deem. When did I become such a miserable excuse of a Lieutenant?_

No movement...wait was that?

From the east, a large column of golden figures marched in the ruined street where Slynt and Deem had stood. There were scores of them...no hundreds...and these were not Goldcloaks of a small barrack or the Iron Gate. These were Gold Fists, and wore bright yellow battle-armours Mark 2 for protection.

 _Well the army is here...we're...I'm saved_ , thought the Goldcloaks officer, trying to not feel any jealousy at the pricey equipment the troops arriving next to him were carrying.

 _With this, our guys could have torn apart this Salamander easily..._

Janos and his men had been forced to go into this battle with the 'militia' battle-armour; which was in reality not a battle-armour at all but the total of an average helmet covering the face with integrated radio, a decent breastplate, some leg protection, forearms armour and reinforced boots.

These fellows had real battle armour; not the ones of knights and lords wore but enough to save your life when laser and plasma explosions rocked the ground. It was pristine too, with no sign of damage excepting the dust they were walking in.

 _They waited until the enemy was done...why I am not surprised?_

"Hail King Rhaegar." Said Janos Slynt, coughing at the end of the sentence, the dust hampering his lungs for the hundredth-plus time.

"Hail King Rhaegar!" Shouted the Gold Fists officer, before adding in a whisper to Janos. "Be a little more enthusiastic, Lieutenant. One might almost believe you're a traitor."

 _We have fought hours against tanks with nothing but rifles and grenades and he doubts our loyalty? What a fucking prick!_

Janos thought about replying but what would that serve? Goldcloaks were always support to defer to the Army, and Gold Fists were the Army's infantry. Plus he was a Lieutenant, and the man facing him was a Captain. A junior Captain, but still. Contesting the orders given was a sure way for court-martial these days.

"Join the rear-guard with the other 'cloaks. Resistance in Flea Bottom has been extinguished. We move on the Red Keep!"

Janos saluted and marched against the wall, careful not to impede the progression of the troops in battle-armour. Seeing the large column advance like on a parade ground, only dispersing to pass the ruins of the Salamander, Janos looked silently at the cheering ranks. Should he warn them adopting this kind of formation against a tank was an invitation for the enemies to shoot first and ask questions later?

"ONWARDS TO GLORY! WE MARCH TO THE RED KEEP! FOR KING RHAEGAR!"

"TO GLORY! FOR KING RHAEGAR!" Answered thousands of voices.

 _Oh, well. If they want to die...like my father always said, if the pig comes to the abattoir freely, you quickly kill it._

The ranks of the warriors clad in power armours went past him, and soon there were replaced by more conventional Goldcloaks marching in dispersed formations.

Like Janos, their gold cloaks were shredded, their durasteel equipment was in ruins, and quite a lot of weapons carried were vibro-swords, vibro-axes or vibro-spears, not the standard laser rifle. The Goldcloaks Lieutenant stopped leaning against the wall and joined their ranks.

"You look like a tank rolled over you, Lieutenant." Joked a Corporal missing several teeth, an accent of Flea Bottom being clearly recognisable in his voice. "Your helmet is nearly fended in half." Startled, Slynt realised the man was right. His helmet was falling into pieces as he tried to remove it. Janos made sure to thank silently the non-commissioned officer for his remark, before throwing the torn helmet on top of the ruined tank responsible for its state.

 _But it saved my life..._

There was not a lot of talk as they progressed in their long walk to the Red Keep. From the distance, Janos could see the kilometres-tall red walls waiting for them, with their massive batteries atop shooting endlessly to interdict the skies.

 _I hope they have a plan to take this thing. This is not a fight you take with a laser rifle and a score of grenades._

In fact, the more they came near the Red Keep, the more Janos saw the battle he and his men had fought against the tank had been ridiculous in size, ferocity and sheer number of soldiers present. Hundreds of tank hulls were abandoned on the streets, in the houses, along with uncountable military vehicles. The marble alleys were crackled and darkened. Arc of triumphs celebrating famous victories of the last hundred years had been torn apart. Gracious arcs and suspended gardens were unrecognisable. Headless statues faced vandalised public buildings. Banners of the three-headed dragon were full of holes. For every squad and lone soldier joining their group, there were thousands of Goldcloaks and Gold Fists dead, so many Janos had no difficulties finding a brand-new helmet that the former owner wouldn't miss, and a new rifle which packed a lot more punch than the useless Go29.

Before them, the golden soldiers still walked, hammering martially the ground with their armoured feet and singing famous songs of long-dead bards.

 _They should shut up. We're going to be in range of the Red Keep main guns in a few minutes..._

BANG!

The first victims never saw their own death.

One moment the Royal soldiers were pushing a loud cheer, the next five of them had their brains blown up, in spite of the armoured helmets they wore.

"TO COVER! TO COVER!"

Janos had no idea who had shouted this excellent suggestion, but he didn't waste any time in plunging behind a ruined infantry transport. In three seconds, seven or eight men had joined him, Goldcloaks all of them.

"NO!" Screamed the Captain who had spoken to Janos minutes ago. The officer had jumped on the ruined carcass of a Salamander, and was now haranguing his men. "LET THE COWARDS RUN! WE WILL MARCH TO THE RED KEEP AND PUT AN END TO THE TYRANNY OF-"

BANG!

These were his last words. The sniper-and it had to be a sniper, Janos reckoned, had recharged its long-range weapon and shot in the head the Royal officer, blowing what little intelligence and military knowledge the man had in a sonorous detonation.

The rest of the action was only confusion and panic. Trying to shoot the ambushed killer that had just shot them like the imbeciles they were, the Gold Fists fired everywhere they thought the sniper was hidden. Including sometimes the ruined transport that Janos and the other soldiers were covering behind.

 _I bet the sniper is laughing at us..._

And every ten seconds or so, a new BANG! sounded. Inevitably, two or three battle-armours fell. The men supposed to be the better of the Goldcloaks on every skill were shot like scared rabbits into the light of a vehicle.

Janos had no idea what sort of weapon the shooter was equipped, but it was a fearsome thing.

 _This rifle is shredding battle-armour like it doesn't exist..._

And then the shots from the sniper finally ended, but the battle-armoured brutes didn't stop firing, ruining the top of the cheap constructions with hundreds of laser impacts.

"CEASE FIRE!" Shouted a Gold Fist officer that came racing out of a nearby street. "What are you doing, band of imbeciles?"

"Sir!" Affirmed one of the biggest battle-armoured armsman present." Eliminating a sniper, Sir!"

"And where is this sniper, hmm?"

"Err..."

Ceasing to cower behind the transport, Janos and the other Goldcloaks approached the officer and the surrounding Gold Fists. The simple soldier that had been talking was now trying to silently ask his comrades for support, but none appeared very keen on revealing where the sniper had been positioned or why they had been firing at least half of their laser rifle's power sources.

"So you never saw this sniper, hmm? And he decimated your company, hmm?"

Decimation was the right word. The damage caused by the sniper had been terribly thorough. Close to one hundred massive yellow soldiers out of a thousand men company were lying on the ground, with their helmets or the protection over their hearts and their lungs blasted apart.

 _Damn. I want this sniper's rifle..._

"We have lost enough time here! Put back into formation and march for the Red Keep! If you are under fire by a sniper, only shoot when you have him in your scope, not before!"

"But sir...who's in command?"

"I am in command!" Erupted the Captain. "Now move your guns and your feet to the Red Keep NOW!"

This time no one tried to discuss or to ask for clarification. Perhaps because the last words had seen the Captain draw his massive vibro-sword in a very threatening manner. Hundreds of Gold Fists and Goldcloaks stopped hiding and went on a rapid march, passing the last ruined buildings and taking the full measure of the last great bastion to take.

The Red Keep was now in view, in all its sinister glory. A true storm of durasteel and laser fire surrounded it.

In all his life, Janos had never seen so many tanks and blinded vehicles, parade days or not.

 _All the capital's reserves must have come for this..._

The Salamanders light tanks were present in the hundreds, as were the infantry transports, disgorging before Janos' group thousands of Goldcloaks to reinforce the lines. By the emblems and tattoos, these men came from the King's and Lion Gates. As Dragon Gate and Gate of the Gods formations were here too, it meant virtually the rest of King's Landing garrisons were in their hands.

 _It also means they've sent you to the butchery, Janos..._

But the light vehicles were not the only machines present. They were scores of Firewyrms, the Crown Sector common battle-tanks, and even a few Drakes heavies firing at the gates of the Royal citadel. They were supported by hundred of artillery pieces. Catapult, Inferno and one gigantic Comet-type heavy tank were hammering the walls and the turrets defending them.

"ONWARDS PROUD SOLDIERS OF THE CROWN SECTOR!" Brayed a man in polished golden battle-armour who was literally...shining? Yes, the man had cleaned so much his armour that it was shining at the reflexion of thousands laser shots.

"ONWARDS!" Screamed a few officers who arrived on their own tanks, encouraging and pushing thousands of new Goldcloaks by the simple movement of their private vehicle. "FOR KING RHAEGAR TARGARYEN!"

 _And they said yesterday shouting anything but 'Long Live King Aerys' was a death sentence..._

Loud noises came out the polluted and dark skies over King's Landing. Coming out of the smoke, many assaults shuttles and starfighters descended towards the Red Citadel.

"QUICK! WE NEED TO ATTACK! WE CAN'T LET THE FIGHTER COMMAND TAKE ALL THE GLORY THIS TIME!"

This was the moment, many anti-aerial batteries hidden in the core fortifications opened fire. Half a score shuttles and plenty of spacefighters exploded under the devastating salvoes, their burning remains falling on the troops besieging the fortress.

 _Yeah...that was glorious..._

"ONWARDS! DEATH TO THE TRAITORS!"

The sky was getting darker. All over King's Landing, hundreds of fires were burning, devouring the inflammable supplies of the capital, starting vast beacons of smoke. Encouraged or threatened by their officers, the Goldcloaks were ordered to march towards the gates.

Each second, some cannon or missile was fired at them. Each time, there was a new crater in the space between the last inhabitations and the walls of the Red Keep, coloured red and yellow from the blood and the destroyed armours the projectiles and the lasers had projected.

Janos and his men were running. Running towards their death by thousands and tens of thousands, shooting all the way with their laser rifles or screaming incomprehensible battle-cries. The tanks and the lasers destroyed countless enemy position on the red walls, but there was always one more reappearing to shoot a missile or a monstrous salvo of laser. The monumental gates of the Red Keep, one kilometre tall, were not breached, despite the fire of hundreds of tanks and artillery.

In the darkness and the light fighting in this destruction, the massive fortress was looking like it was bleeding. It was beautiful...and scary...and terrifying at the same time.

 _We aren't going to take it...we are just here to pay the butcher bill..._

Five of the men that had taken refuge with him behind the vehicle were still with him...until an explosion narrowly missed them...and sent hundreds of shards in a soldier to the right.

"ARRGGGH!" Screamed the Goldcloaks simple soldier, a young man that could not be possibly older than nineteen years old. "My leg! My leg!"

Janos rushed to help the man...however one glance was more than enough to know the recruit was done. The militia armour had proven useless, and the right leg was covered in so much in blood it was difficult to know what exactly was wrong.

 _Or what is still good in his body. They will have to amputate..._

A blast of laser interrupted Janos thoughts, blasting the young man's head apart in a shower of gore.

Being especially close, Janos and the three men that had rushed to save the injured were now sprayed in red.

 _What in the Seven Hells?_

"Don't stop! FOR KING RHAEGAR!" The exclamation came from a Gold Fist in a battle-armour that looked like the type worn by Knights...and by the looks of it, the young man wearing it was one, as he had the shoulder markings of a Royal Knight-Captain. In his hand was a blazing hot gun...the gun that had just murdered the Goldcloak in front of Janos in cold blood.

 _Bastard..._

"Well? What are you waiting for? Do you know who I am? "

"A dead man." Answered Janos Slynt, arming his laser rifle and shooting the knight in the head, which was fortunately unprotected. The man had not bothered putting on his helmet.

 _His loss, my gain, like they say._

The other Goldcloaks in the vicinity opened fire on the Army officer too, showing him how they felt about his victim's demise. By good fortune, no one important appeared to have noticed their little retribution. The assault on the walls was very messy, and there were soldiers running in every direction possible, even behind...where some of the tanks shot the retreating infantry.

 _Bastards...I hate the nobles and the knights._

It was at that precise moment a ray of light hit the red walls, melting and deforming the red material in mere seconds.

 _By the Warrior..._

"BEHEMOTH!"

The ground itself shook.

"BEHEMOTH!"

The earth itself was vibrating, pulsing to announce the arrival of destruction incarnate.

And the cry was taken again by hundreds of thousands voices.

"BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH!"

Coming from the east, at the weak light of the sun and emerging from the fires, a huge machine was now seen, dispersing the smoke and the darkness like it refused the night the right to hamper itself.

Monumental. Gigantic. Titanic.

One hundred and fifty metres tall. So many cannons that a heavy-battle tank was a kid's toy in comparison. A march that made the ground shaking in terror and submission. A shape that was continuously seen on advertisements for Galactic Targaryen News. A figure of dragon where the head of a human would have stood on the figure. Two gigantic rail guns instead of the arms. Tons of durasteel crushing and remoulding the earth, erasing natural defences, and giving despair to any enemy idiotic to stand against them.

This was the second greatest weapon of the Targaryen dynasty, right behind the extinct dragons. The mightiest war machine of the Westerosi ground forces. The Behemoth.

"A Behemoth is here...we're saved!" Cried one of the Goldcloaks in the crowd. And the rest of the crowd continued to psalm the name.

"BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH! BEHEMOTH!"

The Behemoth closed in. Suddenly, all the walls of the Red Keep went silent, like if for the first time the fortress itself recognised it had found an opponent worth of the name.

A shrieking sound resonated over hundreds of kilometres. Allies and enemies, all soldiers put their hands to their ears, as the sonic wave hurt them. It was not pleasant. It was not gracious. It was the cry of a war beast, calling the Gods of War to come and receive their judgement.

And then the twin rail guns of the Behemoth fired. Twin beams of red light, so powerful they shone like the very sun itself, emerged from the guns and in an instant of eternity, struck the Red Keep's Gate.

The explosion was so loud it had to be heard to the Seven Heavens and the Seven Hells. A monumental cloud of dust rose, and thousands of durasteel pieces went everywhere, killing and murdering friends and foe.

Finally, the smoke diminished, revealing the power levels of the weapons just fired.

Of the Red Keep's Gate, more commonly known as the Eternity Gate, there was nothing but a smoking and twisted ruin. Gate leaf, durasteel reinforced by dragonfire, harrow...all had been pulverised by the mighty power of the Behemoth.

A million screams went in the air. A wild sound that defied all logic.

"VICTORY!"

"IN THE NAME OF KING RHAEGAR TARGARYEN...ATTACK!"

And Lieutenant Janos Slynt, like countless others, charged into the breach.

 _Perhaps I will live to see another day..._

* * *

 **Elia Martell, 12.08.283AAC, King's Landing System**

"HA! HA! HA! BURN TRAITOR! BURN!"

 _And the Alchemists wonder why no one trusts them..._

Elia Martell activated the dorsal reactors of her customised Nymeria-model battle-armour and made a vertical jump, gripping one of the arcades decorating the ceiling with her free hand.

It was not a moment too soon. The place on the ground floor she had just left was suddenly sprayed in green flames. Despite being fully armoured, Elia was able to feel the sheer warmth emitted by the inferno. Not good.

"BURN! BURN IN THE NAME OF KING AERYS!"

The deranged voice of Rossart, Grand Master of the Alchemist Guild and by the Mad Will of Aerys the Second of His Name, Hand of the King for the Seven Sectors of Westeros, was coming out of the green flames. Despite coming out of a metallic filter of some kind, the inhumanity and the love of all burnings were clearly audible.

"DON'T HIDE PRINCESS! THE KING HAS COMMENDED YOU TO BURN AND-"

Elia shot a full salvo of her finely crafted laser rifle, directly targeting the demon-shaped helmet worn by Rossart the Dement. But just before contact, a force-field of green energy flickered into existence and stopped the laser shoots.

 _Damn it. If I meet the insane Alchemist who invented this power-armour, I will kill him. Very, very slowly._

"YOUR EFFORTS ARE FUTILE, PRINCESS. THE MARK 20 IS THE APEX OF THE ALCHEMIST CRAFT, A TRUE MARVEL OF ART. OUR MOST GIFTED INVENTORS HAVE PASSED DECADES PERFECTIONING AND IMPROVING THIS BATTLE-ARMOUR. NO ONE CAN SAVE YOU NOW, LOGIC HAS DECREED IT. ACCEPT THE KING' S SENTENCE AND BURN!"

A new activation of her dorsal reactors allowed the Princess of Dorne to widen the distance between her and her opponent, just as Rossart inflamed the ceiling and half of the corridor with his wildfire-thrower. Hundreds of corpses having fallen in the last hour, red, gold and orange clad, were devoured by the voracious alchemical substance.

Elia dropped to the ground on four like one of the feline predators of the Marches before standing in one swift move and rushing back into the fight.

 _Good thing that I had my Mark 13 with me when Connington delivered his ultimatum. Against a Mark 20, I wouldn't have stood a chance with a simple Mark 12._

The sad part was, Rossart boasts had merits. The battle-armour Mark 20, commonly known as 'Alchemist Armour' by the majority of the existing military forces in the galaxy, was only second in terms of performance to the Mark 7 'Dragon' when it worked. Personal particle shields, the resistance of a Lord-level battle-armour, two wildfire cannons in the forearms and a speed able to outpace several bikes and slow tanks on open ground...the Mark 20 was truly a fearsome thing.

But it was the Mark 20 very strengths that carried the worst weaknesses. The Mark 20 was a wildfire-powered armour...and the peak performances never lasted long enough for its owner to leave alive the battlefield. According to the rumour, the prototype of this model had been based on a few data chips and confusing encrypted information that had escaped the Doom of Valyria. An impressive job to patch the fragments, but incomplete nonetheless.

Fatally, an Alchemist could rarely pass a day in this armour without something going really wrong. Like, fatally wrong. Sometimes it was just a complete failure of power, and the other Alchemists had to cut down the armour to free their comrade. Sometimes the Alchemist was cooked by his own wildfire, more thoroughly than if a dragon had done the deed. In time, more Alchemists had been lost to their own failing equipment than anything the enemy did to kill them.

When one added the forbidden drugs and narcotics the Alchemists injected in their bodies while tendrils of Green Matter poured around their organs...and the fact one of the initial tests to enter the Guild was to wear one of said suits...no wonder the Alchemists were raving, utterly mad.

"Fine. Plan C has not worked. Time for Plan D."

Emerging from the wildfire with each of his weapons roaring in anger, Lord Rossart was cutting a figure of terror and awe; one might almost say of evilness. Demon helmet, check. Metallic air-breather, check. Multiple syringes-type objects plunging regularly their content in the wildfire's containers, check. Red-coloured cape torched by the wildfire, check. Burning the mortal remnants of his own followers, check. Maniacal laughter, check.

"IT'S NOT TIME FOR PLAN D, PRINCESS. IT'S TIME TO BUUUURRRRRNNNNN."

If such a thing had been possible, Elia would have sworn Rossart had just achieved orgasm at the idea of more burnings. The two wildfire cannons were activated at the same time, and the corridor was plunged once more in an inferno of green flames.

The Nymeria armour was nothing against this destruction. Wildfire ate everything, and Elia had no choice but to run in the other direction.

 _Sooner or later, you are going to make a mistake, Rossart...and when you do..._

"BY WILDFIRE OR DRAGONFIRE...THIS WORLD WILL BE BURN! SO HAD SPOKEN BLESSED KING AERYS, TRUE CHAMPION OF THE FLAME! IT MUST BE DONE! BURN! BURN! BURN!"

Elia had believed the Alchemist could not get more insane, but she was wrong. Lowering of his wildfire-throwers for an instant, the Wisdom took one object to his belt and launched it in the general direction of the Princess of Dorne.

Made even more careful by the last minutes of fight, Elia ran away. An explosion shook the walls, and the turn of a new corridor allowed her to avoid the hundreds, no the thousands of flaming green splinters coming in her direction.

 _Wildfire grenades. Who else than an Alchemist would be insane to use them in a closed environment?_

"NOTE TO SELF. THE POWER OF THESE GRENADES IS CLEARLY LACKING."

 _Lacking?_

The hall where the Hand of the Mad King was passing had just been transformed into a carbonised nightmare.

 _If it this is lacking, I never want to see the full version._

Not that it seemed to be a problem. Rossart was the last Alchemist alive in the Red Keep, and Elia personal Special Forces had made sure a very thorough attention was made to wipe out this Guild of insane pyromaniacs.

"COME ON PRINCESS! DON'T HIDE! I HAVE FORGOTTEN MY PERSONAL ANTI-TANK WEAPONRY AT THE GUILD!"

 _Time to finish this._

Elia unleashed every tiny bit of power in the Nymeria power-armour plus some that wasn't there. Descending a half-destroyed stair by its banister, the former Dornish Colonel did a thing Rossart had probably never thought in his calculations. She threw her laser rifle. Like one of those gladiators threw their vibro-spear in Aerys imbecilic games.

The green shield of Rossart proved completely useless against such a material projectile, and the Grand Master received the rifle directly in the legs, projecting him in an impressive slip on the back, leaving green sparkles on the floor. The battle-armour had easily absorbed the shock of course, but it had never been the point.

 _Else I would have shot the head._

Profiting from Rossart lack of battle experience, the sister of the Red Viper closed the gap between herself and her opponent, drawing the dagger on her right side and executing two complicated strikes, before giving a vicious kick in the upper torso of Rossart.

Against a Mark 20 armour, an attack with durasteel like the one Elia had just executed would have been worse than useless. But the Princess dagger was not durasteel. It was a Valyrian alloy.

Rossart hit the opposite wall with a loud CLANG!...and without his arms. The main wildfire weapons were smoking and the Alchemist hands were now jolting in the middle of a pool of blood that was enlarging at an impressive speed. On the opposite wall, their former owner was in a pitiful state. From the wounds, the Grand Master was losing a lot of blood, and his battle-armour was smoking and shrieking. The metallic breather had been removed, and the breath that was now coming out was the one a human made in his agony.

"It's over. You have lost, Lord Rossart. Now tell me where the wildfire caches are. They won't be of any use to you where you are going." Elia recognised she put a bit too much of triumphalism in her voice, but assumed it. This man and his mad cohorts had massacred her own bodyguards. In the Princess of Dorne's opinion, she was awarded a bit of pay-back.

"This is wildfire..." Rasped Aerys' Hand. "Your argument...is...incorrect."

"You really have no decency anymore, don't you, Rossart?" The Dornish woman recovered her laser rifle and pointed it on the head of the Alchemist.

"Orders...holy orders...are to be obeyed..." The man was spitting blood now. His end was a matter of seconds.

 _Damn it. If we win, we're going to have to search the entire capital for this wildfire..._

"My life...for King Aerys."

 _What?_

The Dornish Princess just reacted by instinct. One silent activation of the reactors, and she crashed through a window before rocketing down one of the great towers and traversing many corridors in catastrophe. Looking behind her, there was only a column of green flames. The Tower of the Hand, a huge construction in red that had stood for more than two hundred years, was now burning a livid green, with the light and the darkness forming images of monstrous creatures; an ocean of green flames to serve as the tomb of the Wisdom.

 _Fortunately I was so low an altitude the anti-aerial defences didn't shoot me...Nice funeral pyre by the way, Rossart. Now that the Alchemist problem is removed, let's see how fare the others._

Opening her radio link, Elia searched the frequency used by her special forces.

"Colonel Scorpio, report."

His real name wasn't Scorpio, of course. As a matter of fact, none of the Dornish which had served in Elia's guard at King's Landing had been using their true name or given anything looking like their real military record to the Crown Intelligence Agency, the Kingsguard and the different other securities services pullulating in the polluted stronghold of the Targaryen dynasty.

"Princess! You're alive!" The tired voice of Scorpio answered after a few seconds of electronic parasites.

"Indeed. Rossart is dead and the rest of the Alchemists have been eliminated. What is the strategic situation?"

"Bad, your Highness. Three of my soldiers have taken an auxiliary control room since...the Alchemists have proven a bit too competent at defending the main ones."

Which meant, if Rossart was any indication, that they had made themselves detonate in an explosion of wildfire.

"Our forces?"

"Have taken the outer circle of defences of the Green Keep." Scorpio coughed, and Elia winced as she heard the sheer pain in the man's throat. "For the good it will do to us...all the women and men we have left are injured..."

The Princess of Dorne listened with her heart tightening the mounting list of casualties. Women and men she had known for years, in her service for Doran or playing as her bodyguards at King's Landing. Now, all dead serving under her orders, plunged in a war they should never have to fight.

"How much time can you hold?" Asked the Princess, calculating how much a time an evacuation or a change of strategy would cost.

"Ten minutes."

 _Ten minutes?_

"Our snipers have done too much damage to their Gold Fists and Goldcloaks commanders. Jon Connington has given the orders to bring all reinforcements against us."

"The Red Keep is strong. And the Eternity Gate won't fall that easily without orbital support."

"Yes, I think your husband's friend has understood this point." There was a savage glee in Scorpio's voice, one indicating his command had been busy in the last minutes explaining to the Kingslanders how idiot and stupid their mass charges had been.

"But now, it is over. They're bringing a Behemoth from Camp Daeron."

Elia shivered. Behemoth. The simple name was a curse and a malediction in itself. It had been the Behemoths that had twice spearheaded the vanguard forces of the Young Dragon to conquer Dorne, forcing House Martell and all their banners to resort to assassinations, skirmishes, raids and sabotages. Forcing the Dornish vibro-spears to wait patiently for the vigilance of the Reach and Targaryen generals to decrease and their complex machineries to grip in the desert immensities. Dealing with one on an open battlefield was just a recipient for disaster. Robert Baratheon was perhaps the only being in the entire galactic history to have fought one and destroyed it in the Battle of the Trident.

Oberyn had shown her several times the carcasses of the juggernauts half-buried under the dunes. Behemoths, in spite of over a century abandoned, were still gigantic mountains of durasteel and barely understood technology, souvenir of the ancient dragonlords' glory. For the Dornish women, it was the proof the dragon blood had really something to compensate when they waged war upon another.

And now one was on its way.

"Can the forces we have left inside the city stop it?"

"No. Most of the soldiers who stood with us are dead, and half of the capital forces are converging towards the Red Keep as we speak. Our snipers are doing what they can to delay their progression, but they already can't kill all the officers and the tanks. Dealing with the Behemoth without heavy weaponry and orbital strikes can only result in a glorious suicide." The tone of voice of Scorpio showed how little the grizzled Dornish colonel cared for glory. "We can hold the walls until the Behemoth comes, but a counter-attack to slow it down is not in our range of possibilities."

There was one moment of silence on the radio, and the Dornish Colonel spoke again.

"Short of an orbital strike in the next ten minutes, the Eternity Gate is going to fall."

 _And the Red Keep with it. Shit._

"Rossart is dead, and I doubt Aerys has the official codes anymore. Connington is an idiot, but even he wouldn't have launched his coup without denying the madman the capability to turn King's Landing into a smoking crater."

 _He can't be THAT brainless..._

"My conclusions exactly." Replied Scorpio. "What are your orders, your Highness?"

"We have lost." Declared Elia. It was a bitter realisation, but plunging the head in the sand like an ostrich and covering the eyes in denial would not solve anything. "The soldiers who are able to escape and are currently inside the Red Keep must do so immediately. Two of the secret passages known to us have not been sealed. Use them, rally our special forces dispersed across the capital."

"Princess, we can't leave you here!" Exclaimed Scorpio.

"You will have to. Rossart and Aerys, damn their souls to hell, have blocked me out of the vital chokepoints, and too many anti-explosion doors are closed."

All around her, the towers were ruined and looked about ready to collapse. The only exits now available led to the Throne Room...and the Eternity Gate. No Dornish knew of any secret passage in these areas of the Targaryen fortress.

"I will need close to an hour to deactivate all their electronic locks, and we will never have that time. Evacuate the citadel, leave only the volunteers and the few persons necessary to fire the automatic defences."

"But-"

"Evacuate, Colonel. Dorne has lost enough of its children in this war, I refuse to give the Great Wyrm more. This is an order."

"But-"

"Order Nymeria-Aegon-Vale-Sunspear-three-nine-five-Viper. Execute."

"By your command, Princess." The voice of Scorpio had come from rebellious to resigned. "Unbowed, unbent, unbroken."

"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, Colonel. Tell my daughter I love her of all my heart."

"It will be done. All our prayers are with you Princess."

Elia cut the communication. There wasn't anything more to tell. Activating once more the reactors in her armour, the Princess rushed in the last corridors, this time helped by the updated information given by Colonel Scorpio. The Eternity Gate was going to fall; nothing Elia could do was going to change that fact. But there was one man who had to be dealt with before the end. One of the two main architects and culprits of this entire war.

Two minutes and twenty-seconds later, the sister of the Red Viper was in front of the great doors of the Throne Room, ready to accomplish the vengeance she had prayed to come in the last months. Taping an override combination from a panel command that had somehow avoided destruction, the Dornish Princess waited as the defensive systems registered her order.

The Royal doors opened towards the interior in a very melodramatic groan, one that Elia was sure Aerys had taken great lengths to prepare. Allowed to see the first meters and pillars before her, Elia realised the place was not like she had imagined to be.

The Throne Room was largely in the darkness. Here and there, there were a few modern lights, disguised in torches by ingenious artists, but these were the only lights available. The news screens on the ceiling were switched off. So was the music, icy or sonorous depending on the sovereign whims. The black marble was cold, like the heating had been cut off hours ago, long before the coup was launched.

 _What the hell happened here?_

There were no courtiers, sycophants, whores-turned-courtesans, flatterers and the thousands of servants male and female living in the Citadel built Maegor the Cruel. The rare battle-armours mounting the guard along the vast columns and the sculpted walls were dead, their lifeless eyes reflecting no clue of their passing.

There was just the silence and darkness. And the dragon skulls of course. The damned dragon skulls. The reason why this Throne Room was so huge and the ceiling so high. Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar, Caraxes, Syrax, Meleys...the defunct Targaryen dragon skulls, of a size so gigantic most were able to swallow a destroyer-sized ship between their frightening fangs.

In the semi-darkness, this proof of the Targaryen once mighty power were even more terrifying than at the light of the day. Passing before the familiar sight of the Black Dread, Elia was glad her little Rhaenys wasn't here.

 _Hopefully she will be safe at the Water Gardens..._

And then a voice spoke in the darkness. A voice millions, no billions of people across the Seven Sectors of Westeros had had all reasons to despise.

"I've been waiting for you Elia Martell. We meet again, at last."

Light progressively came into the Throne Room. Nothing like the true brightness of a Dornish Sun or the one lightening King's Landing, more like the moment when the sun is setting and night has not completely fallen on a world. Penumbra was the right word for the circumstances.

For the first time, Elia was able to discern the mass of the Iron Throne at the end of the kilometre-long and extravagant avenue. The ugly black mass was as dark as five days ago when she last set a foot here. The million swords of the Great Surrender, taken upon the Field of Fire and uncountable battlefields by negotiations or the force of arms. Forged by the fire of the Black Dread and thousands of forge-masters in a long mass of sharp edges where no human could sit comfortably.

 _But no Dornish weapons have taken their place here. The Dragons were already dead when we joined the realm. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._

On this seat was a man in red and black battle-armour, with the red dragon of House Targaryen. Startled, Elia Martell recognised Aerys II after several seconds. Yet it was the king...and it wasn't him. For the first time in ages, Rhaegar's father had cut his nails, his beard and his hair. Gone was the beast-human look, the Head of the Targaryen dynasty before Duskendale had returned. There was no madness in the violet eyes, just a hard, cold determination. The rides and the privations of the last couple of years had recessed.

"The Circle is now complete." Aerys affirmed, looking pleased at Elia's uneasiness discovering his new appearance.

"What happened to you?" Stammered the Princess of Dorne.

"Why does it matter? You have come to kill me, don't you?"

"You would have done the same a thousand times if you had the assurance your own son wouldn't kill you for the act."

Aerys nodded briefly.

"Perhaps...but was it truly me? Was I the one to wield the torches when the wolves burnt? Or did half of the court watched without moving one finger?" The former Mad King made a negative sign. "I was mad, I recognise it. What was the excuse of all those who obeyed my orders?"

"You were the King."

"The Starks, the Arryns and half of the realm beg to differ." Aerys smiled, a frank open smile that was more terrifying than anything else Elia had seen on this day. Damaged teeth were reflected by the artificial light. Silver hair shone in an unreal manner. A pale hand was agitated in denegation. "Exactly. Even Tywin, a man I was proud to call my friend, turned against me when my mind went troubled. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters in the end."

"Nothing matters? Your own son madness doesn't concern you?"

Aerys fists tightened on the Iron Throne, drawing some blood, but the look of the king remained unrepentant...and tormented?

"I saw Him, Elia. He showed me his armies. He showed me His powers. He showed me what is waiting for us in the Void. Beyond the Wall, the Great Enemy has returned."

Elia was no great student of Westerosi history, but she knew what Aerys was referencing to.

"The Others..." The descendant of Nymeria whispered. Aerys nodded grimly.

"The Pact has been broken many times now. His Daughters are mustering for war...and humanity will not be able to stop them."

"Humanity won't bow to them. The First Men won against them once. We can win again." In the privacy of her own mind however, Elia didn't feel so certain. Assuming it wasn't one more aspect of Aerys folly, Westeros current civil war had created enough feuds and grudges to last a century or two. Uniting every Sector against the Others... _I don't think a God would be able to do it._

Aerys reply was just a tired smile.

"I'm afraid they've learnt from their mistakes...the Wall will not stop them. This time even the Promised Hero may not be able to deliver us the victory. When the Dragons rise again, the Dead no longer sleep and the Heavens scream, they will come."

A deep silence fell in the Throne Room plunged partially in the shadows.

 _This is what is waiting the realm...the Long Night._

Finally Aerys broke the calm.

"I am Aerys Targaryen, King of Westeros, Protector of the Faith and Defender of the Realm. And you killed thousands of my soldiers, Elia Martell."

"And I would have killed thousand more to ensure Aegon and Rhaenys safety."

Aerys stood up from the throne, a massive vibro-blade in his right hand. "Your loyalty as a mother do you credit. As a Protector of the Realm, not at all. I'm afraid I'm going to insist for a duel."

"Really?"

 _After what you said, you just want to fight?_ Was the implicit accusation.

Aerys visage took a sheepish expression.

"My former soldiers are coming for us. One of us will die now...the other will have the pleasure to tell Stokeworth's cronies to go fuck themselves...if they can find of course the orifice appropriate for that."

 _No, that's not your reasoning. You don't want to give them the credit to kill you. You don't want them to see you sane a last time. They have failed you...you will not give them a last hope._

"In guard then." Replied Elia Martell, with the honorific bow preceding a duel, drawing her dagger and letting her rifle fall to the ground.

"Yes, in guard." Sighed the sovereign, who had finally reached the bottom of his awful throne. "Fire and Blood!"

At an impressive speed provided by his Dragon armour, the Lord and Master of Westeros raced into battle a last time, trying to come to grips with his opponent. In a few seconds, the Princess of Dorne realised that even a dagger against a vibro-sword, the odds were not in the King's favour.

His technique was sloppy, his reflexes inexistent due to decades passed bedding ladies, murdering people and governing Westeros. Each strike was given without precision or particular intent. The armour giving the speed was impressive, the flesh inside was not trained to the rigors of battle. Elia had fought constant skirmishes in the last hour, but she was in a better state than her adversary.

The King made a first mistake. But one was all what a woman trained by the Red Viper needed. The Valyrian dagger pulverised the Mark 7 and found Aerys' heart.

"Rhaella..."

Aerys fell against the floor at the very feet of the Iron Throne and stopped moving. For the first time in years, his face was serene in the dark pool of blood which was forming.

"Damn you, Aerys!" The Princess of Dorne released a tear. "Damn you for forcing me to end you while you were no longer insane!"

 _This whole affair...how did we come to this?_

Breathing loudly to find a measure of calm, Elia took the vibro-sword of the fallen King and mounted the Iron Throne, an ascension that took her the better part of three minutes to avoid all the barbs and the sharp turns.

Once seated, a grimace came to her tired lips. In spite of wearing a comfortable battle-armour, the Throne was as prodigiously uncomfortable as it was said.

 _It's a wonder why people fight for it..._

Loud noises mounted in the corridors at the entrance of the Throne Room. The weight of thousands armoured fists, running in her direction.

 _So this how it ends..._

A mass of yellow battle-armoured soldiers erupted in her vision. As they were running, not walking, their progression towards the Throne was fluid, a gigantic snake of gold. Gold Fists, wearing dusty but more or less intact armours. Goldcloaks, wearing all sort of weapons, but their gold cloaks in lamentable conditions. There were a few Storm units with the red and white of Connington, but by far a minority in this sea of gold. More telling however, was the lack of officers. A smile came to Elia lips.

 _I see they've learnt Dornish snipers are not to be underestimated..._

The most interesting thing however were the reactions when they saw the King dead and his murderess sat on his throne. Relief. Appreciation. Anger. Worry. Fear. Sadness. The Liege they had forsworn their oaths. The Princess they had mocked and vilified, aware her husband had chosen others high-born women to warm his bed.

"ELIA MARTELL!" The voice of Manly Stokeworth boomed from a megaphone, their owner waiting at the entrance of the room, clearly not wishing to close the distance.

"LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER!"

"I am Princess Elia Nymeros Martell. By my blade, your King and his Hand stand dead. What part of Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken don't you understand?"

The ambiance in the Throne Room grew tenser and tenser after her clear declaration. Gold Fists and Goldcloaks tightened their rifles and their vibro-weapons. Fear was in their eyes.

The Lord of the Goldcloaks puffed like...like a puff-fish, the arrogance and the self-righteousness added. That it was visible a good kilometre away said very sad things about the lord's vanity.

"You do not leave me any choice, then. You are going to learn the price of your treason." His voice was not in the least sorry.

"I paid it the day I married in the Targaryen dynasty." Declared joyously Elia with a hint of melancholy. "Shall we dance?"

 _Rhaenys...Aegon...I love you. I will wait for you in the Heavens._

"In the name of King Rhaegar-" Began Lord Manly Stokeworth.

Elia didn't give him the time to finish his sentence, activating her dorsal reactors and raising high the vibro-sword in her hands a last time.

"Let the Galaxy burn!"

* * *

 _My Lady,_

 _As I predicted in my last message, the System of King's Landing has been four days ago the theatre of a terrible and bloody coup._

 _While details are far from clear at this stage of my investigation, it is evident a three way-war between supporters of the Rapist, the Crazy One and Princess Elia Martell has been fought. Rapist forces, placed under the command of the no-longer-exiled Lord Jon Connington, have taken control of the entire System. The Royal Fleet and the army garrisoned on Visenya's moon rallied to his cause once the outcome of the coup was no longer in doubt._

 _What has been confirmed dress a very dark picture of the situation._

 _Dragon One, the central command hub of the orbital platforms, is gone, nuked to oblivion. A majority of space habitations in the vicinity, which were built in complete ignorance of the safety regulations, were total losses. King's Landing the City itself has been the battleground of a short but vicious civil war between the men and women of the three factions. The Rapist was clearly able to suborn a large majority of the Goldcloaks and the Gold Fists forces, but Princess Elia's subordinates had the quality to counter the numbers. The Crazy One supporters appeared to have been limited to the green maniacs and some ass-lickers with more stubbornness than sense._

 _Unfortunately, a large reserve force under the personal command of Connington intervened and rapidly convinced (by bribery, threat or outright murder) all the hesitating garrisons of the capital to join him. By that point, the numbers of Rapist supporters became overwhelming and all the quality in the world couldn't save their opponents._

 _The Alchemist Guild was wiped out, a fate that I will not shed a tear except to celebrate. The last Dornish soldiers retrenched themselves in the Red Keep, trying to inflict enough casualties to stalemate until an eventual cease-fire. It was at that moment Connington made a Behemoth leave Camp Daeron to breach the Eternity Gate._

 _As horrible as this order was, it proved effective and the Gate fell quickly (renovation efforts delayed for the last two decades may have played their role too I suspect). Some of the Dornish escaped by the infamous secret passages of the Red Keep when everything was lost. We will have to see if a few veterans in half-pay return from certain secret operations at Sunspear for the next couple of years._

 _The deaths of the Crazy One, Queen Rhaella Targaryen (cause of death: childbirth and the long sessions of rape her husband subjected her to) three members of the Small Council (Master of Coin, Master of Laws and Hand of the King) and Princess Elia Martell have been confirmed, the first having been killed by the latter, despite GTN best attempts to darken the snow. The Princess has sold dearly her life against hundreds of her Rapist-husband soldiers, but was eventually slain. It is a great loss to Dorne and the Realm as a whole._

 _The other members of the Royal family are in Jon Connington's custody including the Great Silent Wolf's twin nieces. Only the fate of Princess Rhaenys is unknown, with my best sources insisting her courageous mother managed to spirit her away before everything fell apart._

 _The number of casualties admitted at this hour by the authorities of King's Landing stands at an estimated 3 504 840, 46% of them being military ones. In my professional opinion, these figures are deliberately understated, as by my personal sources the true number of deaths may reach ten million by the time this week ends._

 _In the short-term, this operation, that I believe was code-named 'Downfall', do not represent a major strength decrease in the Loyalists war machine capacities._

 _The military factories of the King's Landing System are all intact. So are the shipyards and the main repair facilities. The majority of the Crown forces lost in this battle, with the notable exception of the Dragon One operative crew, are third-rate Gold Fists formations and Goldcloaks, which the dragon-lovers never intended to field against us except in the most desperate circumstances. One light cruiser, three scout cruisers and two escort carriers, along with two hundred and five starfighters have been lost. Less than a flotilla all told._

 _Loyalist relationships with Dorne are certain to degrade, but alas their army and their fleet were crippled at the Trident. Unless the Rapist has reached a new level of insanity and declares war on Dorne in the next days (something we can't exclude given the Targaryen dynasty past actions), the Southern rapport of force will be unchanged for the next months._

 _In the long-term, it is probable there is going to be a large source of resent in King's Landing, the Crown Sector and the Princedom of Dorne towards the Targaryen dynasty for these heinous actions. The march of the Behemoth for example, while no doubt a moral crusher and a battle-winning move, has killed hundreds of civilians and soldiers loyal to the Rapist, making our own friendly fire incidents at Ashford and the Battle of the Bells look like green troops mistakes. Possibility to create underground cells exists, and in my humble opinion should be exploited as soon as possible._

 _Your respectful servant,_

 _The North remembers. The Dragons will die._

Coded transmission from Northern agent D4583 to Marshal Lyessa Flint, dated 16.08.283AAC.

* * *

 _Contrary to what you affirm, at no moment either me or the persons in my employ have noticed any Rebel activity actively or passively supporting the soldiers acting under Princess Elia Martell. I would advise you to abandon this issue...except we both know you won't. Now stop wasting my time._

Memo typed by Ser Alliser Thorne to Lord Jon Connington, dated 19.08.283AAC.


	4. Predator, Prey (Prologue 4)

**Prologue 4**

 **Predator, Prey**

" _The war between the West and the North continues in the forests of Bridge's Edge_." Anonymous Bolton soldier's report.

 _"During four long months, the survivors of the 3rd and 5th Lannisport armies fought for their survival in the lands claimed by House Frey centuries ago. Bereft of any aerial support and heavy weapons, the Westerners ruthlessly adapted...or died. The officers unable to recognise the rules had changed were purged by the Northern vibro-blades or their own subordinates. Hundreds of regulations were broken on a day-per-day basis. Young men who had never left their city blocks in Lannisport faced a hostile environment with little ammunition and food. Starvation, diseases, murders and savage fighting at close-quarters became the norm._

 _Little wonder then, that all the survivors having not capitulated would be put in half-pay or definitely dismissed from the Western armies when they came back home. The high authorities of Casterly Rock put large censorship efforts to ensure the rare witnesses were not able to disseminate the truth on a global scale. As far Lord Tywin Lannister and his main bannersmen were concerned, the skirmishes and ambushes taking place after the disaster of Operation Lightning Lion were a terrible symbol of failure, one the billions of Western smallfolk had no need to hear. In the end, those who valued the most the Western resistance were the Northern troops involved in this campaign. The men sworn to Lord Eddard Stark were deeply impressed by the sheer courage of the red-gold lone warriors to continue the fight outgunned, separated and leaderless._

 _The results of this Western short-sighted policy were going to prove controversial when the Greyjoy Rebellion erupted several years later down the line..._ "

From To the Last by Yzabel Tendao, 312AAC.

" _Any ideas what they were trying to achieve_?" Lord Jason Mallister after the failed Ironborn assault on Seagard, 283AAC.

" _I serve the realm. Always_." Lord Varys Tivario to King Rhaegar Targaryen, 283AAC.

" _King Rhaegar should have exiled in disgrace all the councillors of his father...but only Lord Manly Stokeworth and Lord Jon Connington paid the price of Operation Downfall. In my opinion, their deep incompetence was worth a short death sentence_." Anonymous Crownlander knight, 283AAC.

" _House Targaryen stands triumphant...woe to any opponent who dares challenge their rule_." Lord Jon Connington, 284AAC.

" _This is not a peace. This is a truce of twenty years at best_." Lord Eddard Stark, 283AAC.

" _Victory? They speak of victory when all that had been achieved was waking up the direwolf? No this conflict was a lot of things but not a victory_." Lord Antario Jast, 285AAC.

" _There is always a constant in war. You can count on the Ironborn to do the stupidest thing of the decade_." Anonymous Westerosi veteran, 290AAC.

* * *

 **The Lone Lieutenant, 04.09.283AAC, Binary Twins System**

The detonation resonated loudly in the woods, like the thunder itself. There was no large cloud of smoke or shockwave to signal its emplacement, but a lot of animals and insects went silent. Despite the presence of a timid sun, a dark atmosphere started to permeate the woods.

Ayric Sarring cursed profusely under his breath, finishing the pitiful piece of bread which had constituted his main lunch of the day. Around him eight other Western soldiers made several noises of disgust and pronounced various obscenities. Rising from their rudimentary seats-in reality fallen tree trunks- the warriors sworn to House Lannister looked at the woods surrounding the small clearing where they had paused their march hours before.

"Well. It looks like we haven't been able to escape the Northerners after all." Ayric affirmed, grimacing as his stomach growled to protest how little it had been filled in the last days.

"Why can't the wolves leave us in peace?" Asked Corporal Jobolt Westerwyck in a tone that made evident he wasn't expecting an answer from the other members of the improvised squad.

Ayric thought about a moment answering that the Northerners abandoning a hunt before the target was killed was simply not in their nature, but ultimately didn't. After all, whether he personally was right or not was irrelevant at the moment. The Northerners were here and closing. Everything else could wait until the battle was over.

 _And then if we're still alive we will be free to debate the motivations of our enemies...though I'm curious why they've decided to make that much noise. It doesn't sound like the Bolton scouts to be that sloppy._

"Disperse." Ordered the sole officer of the surviving rag-tag band of Westerners survivors. "Don't use your rifles. We don't know how many of them there are."

"The radios?" The expression on Soldier 2nd class Rolandor Hill's face was full of hope, and Ayric wondered for a moment how the eighteen name-days young man had survived all these days on Bridge's Edge before Preslan rescued him. Pure luck and discovering a crippled shuttle full of supplies explained many things, but still...

"No. There's always a chance our pursuers are in squad-strength. If they are, we can defeat them without alerting their friends in orbit."

"Yeah, let's keep the orbital strikes away from our positions." Soldier 1st class Lamion Fartorne." I've seen enough of their sky lights for a lifetime."

Like Ayric, Lamion had grabbed equipment on the corpses of his Northern victims. Unlike the Lieutenant who had commanded the 201 665th squad however, the experienced soldier had removed his red battle-amour and replaced it with a Northern model. This was to say the least a risky move, because while the Western flag officers tended to close their eyes when a soldier or an officer used an enemy weapon, abandoning your battle-armour was often regarded as outright treason. Not that it perturbed Fartorne. Armed with a vibro-blade and a vibro-axe, the Lannisport man seemed to believe the regulations were made to be broken.

In other circumstances, Ayric Sarring would have had not to force himself to send this gallows bird to his court-martial. Lamion Fartorne was a former gang member of the Lannisport worst slums and had no redeeming qualities the Lieutenant had been able to discover in the nine days they had passed together. But the closest general officers of the Western army were in prisoner camps, making an official trial a bit difficult to organise. And with Northerners in pursuit, summarily executing him would make the numerical disadvantages on Bridge's Edge worse, not better.

"Take position in a crescent formation behind the trees." Ordered Ayric, drawing his borrowed Bolton vibro-blade, the emblem of the flayed man on the guard being now thoroughly scratched.

"At my command, we attack and we kill them. Quickly and then we run."

"Kill for the living of Lannisport." Whispered Rock Corporal Quenten Moreden, doing his best to move under a stump.

"Kill for the dead." Answered in a low rumble the eight Westerners. Dissimulated in a bush, Ayric smiled regretfully. 'Hear me Roar', 'For the Rock', 'For Lord Tywin Lannister and many other battle cries had been completely discarded as the scope of the defeat became all too evident and no rescue happened to save them from the Northerners. Live or die what the only choice the infantry of Lannisport had left; their battle cry had evolved in that direction as a consequence.

Shouting the battle cry was also becoming strictly forbidden if you had a few brain cells. Northern trackers' hearing was formidable, and screaming war imprecations was the best way to attract an army on your position.

The colours of the Mark 2 'Sword' armours had also changed. Where red-gold battle-armours would have made hiding attempts futile, the equipment was now covered in dust, leaves and various taints of green, grey and brown. From his position in the vegetation, Ayric was almost missing the positions of the men he and Preslan had gathered in the last weeks, and he knew where they had crouched.

 _Good. Perhaps we will be able to take the Northern bastards completely by surprise this time._

Sounds of men running neared the positions of Ayric's command. By the noises they were making, there was no subtlety whatsoever...and what that a laser shot?

Several flashes of light could be seen in the distance and mere moments later a soldier of the Western soldier appeared. Gasping and out of breath, the red-armoured figure entered in the clearing nine men had occupied minutes before, laser rifle in hand doing an awful din sufficient to wake up dead men.

A look at him was enough for the veteran Lieutenant to see the man-bearing the marks of a Corporal- had not long to live. To begin with, he had no more helmet and a broken nose pissing blood, revealing his juvenile features and infected scars. There were deep slashes all over his battle-armour; so many that parts of it had to be completely useless right now. About half of them were bleeding. It was like seeing the result of a man having tried to handle a wild bear solely with his fists.

 _Except of course that bears are no-match for a man in battle-armour...the ones on this planet anyway._

Bent on one knee in the centre of the clearing, the newcomer spit blood and screamed in pain. Ayric winced. Whoever had maimed the soldier, this party was now on its way. And effectively as the hurt Westerner tried to bandage his most serious wounds, Ayric saw large shadows arrive from the east where the Lannister soldier had himself come.

They were five of them, and they were huge. That was the first thought which entered the mind of Ayric Sarring and it was not one which came often to him. Amongst his eight men he had Sergeant Raff Preslan, who was a big hulking beast of a man if there ever was one. However, the five Northerners present surpassed Ayric's second-in-command in mass, height and width. Even more worrying, there was no pink or red above their heart, but a few buckets on blue.

 _These are not Bolton troops. Where do the rebels find men that big?_

Surprisingly or not, the Northerners pursuing force made no real effort of hiding their moves as they gathered like a pack of wolves about to pounce on their prey. Finally they were all in the clearing, and the one who had the markings of a sergeant or an equivalent rank advanced with a formidable vibro-axe in his right hand, one Ayric felt confident he would never wield gracefully, even with both hands. The five battle-armours the Northerners wore were of a model that he had never seen before, bulky and built for pure aggression.

 _Hopefully these are not Terminator armours...else we are screwed._

Ayric debated giving the signal...and hesitated. The lone soldier was not going to survive, no matter what the group of nine attempted. Worse, they had no idea how skilled these five Northerners were, and none appeared to have any food or supplies packages with them. Attacking was going to result in many losses, for no particular benefit. Regretfully, Ayric decided not to attack. The Corporal sworn to the Lannister cause had seen enough bloodshed anyway and decided it was time to cut the losses. Throwing his laser rifle away, the red-armoured youngster rose his hand in the air in the universal sign of surrender and began to beg.

"Mercy! Mercy! Please! Mercy! Oath to the-"

In the years to come, Ayric would often ask himself if the defeated Westerner had wanted to finish by 'Oath to the Faith' or 'Oath to the Night's Watch'. The latter might have spared him, considering the Northern Sector was always the one most involved with the black guardians of the Wall. Or maybe not. With their large beards and their hirsute grins, these men had the looks of wildlings having found at the nearest bush a pack of military equipment.

"FOR THE DIREWOLF LORD!" Blared the huge Northerner, decapitating the unfortunate Lannister young man in a precise strike of his vibro-axe. The head thus detached rose in the air only to fall at the base of an ancient tree in an arc of blood. Around the body just slain, a pool of blood began to form under the sadistic eyes of the Northern warrior.

"NOOOOOO! VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE FOR MY FAMILY!" Shouted Soldier 1st class Lamion Fartorne, letting himself fall from the branch of the tree where he had been perched and then rushing towards the Northerners vibro-axe brandished.

 _The imbecile..._

There was no time to hesitate. There was no time for the insults, recriminations or the other accusations. Perhaps later, if they survived the battle, Ayric would kill Lamion Fartorne slowly and with great pleasure. But right now they had to launch the assault. By intervening, the idiot had made sure the North was going to search this area until they were absolutely sure no one was lying in wait for them.

"ATTACK!"

Disdaining his own orders, with his left arm the Lieutenant shot a salvo of his laser rifle before letting it fall on the ground and running into the clearing, vibro-blade in hand. Ayric was not the first of his group to arrive. Wise or not, everyone had understood what Lamion's choice had imposed them. Raff Preslan appeared seemingly out of nowhere before engaging a Northerner armed with a sort of chain-wielded warhammer. From the cover of the trees on his right, Corporal Jobolt Westerwyck and Soldier 2nd class Tion Magellan were racing, their own blades pointed in the direction of the enemy. The ruffle behind the bushes, trees and rocks made clear the five other Lannister troopers were arriving.

"FOR THE DIREWOLF LORD! KILL THEM ALL!"

But the Northerners weren't impressed. Emitting growls able to frighten half of Seven Stellar Sectors in submission, the grey battle-armours charged to fight Ayric and his group. The clash was more violent than all the ambushes the recent united group had participated until that moment. The Northerner who had just murdered the Lannister corporal went directly at him. The vibro-axe red of blood came into his field of vision, and the Lieutenant parried only with great effort, the shock between the axe and the blade dolorously impacting in his muscles and bones.

 _By the Seven Hells, how strong is this man?_

Not distressed at all to see his initial attack fail, the bear-like opponent growled and unleashed a series of strikes, forcing Ayric on the defensive. The Westerner officer knew from the start he was the better duellist; alas it wasn't that much an advantage right now. His opponent was fresh, well-fed and reposed; Ayric had been weakened by long weeks of pursuit and harassment, not to mention the lack of food. In normal conditions on a training ground of Lannisport, the duel would have been over in a matter of seconds. Here? As Ayric was forced to jump and lengthen the distance when the brute tried to kick him with his massive head, he realised the chances were not good. It was like a nightmare, as everything around seemed to slow and the clearing took red and black colours. Men screamed in the background, the screams of their agony mounting in the air. The vibro-blade he handled was slowing and reacting too slowly. His opponent parried too easily and counter-attacked with each move more powerful than the last.

 _How humiliating to be defeated by a guy who picked an axe in the armoury and decided to swing it with as little technique as possible_.

The Northerner launched another series of circular strikes, adding his fist and legs to the moves. Ayric managed to bear the impacts, but the pain in the arms and the legs was becoming more and more insistent. There were holes in the Northerner defence but Ayric was too slow to exploit them. And then with no warning Carlos Marner fell between the two fighters, a bloody mess forming where organs like the lungs and other vital things were located.

The big Northerner, surprised, finally overextended himself...and Ayric plunged him directly the vibro-sword in a joint of the forearm.

He had expected a lot of screaming. At least an acknowledgement of pain. But if anything, this only seemed to amuse the rebel. Ayric had to withdraw quickly his blade and put himself in guard to evade again the vibro-axe again.

But this time fate's favour had changed sides. While the large-bearded man was doing no outwards sign of pain, his strikes were growing less rapid. The blood flowing profusely from this wound was maybe for something in that. His technique, already leaving nothing to finesse and grace, was more and more jerky and full of flaws. Ayric feinted and plunged the sword into the warrior's left leg. This time the Northerner groaned in pain and almost lost equilibrium...a delay sufficient for Ayric to inflict him another wound in the other arm. Disarming the enormous warrior was the affair of one more stab, which removed cleanly the axe's arm.

The two fighters looked at each other...and against all logic the Northerner widely smiled. His eyes were calm and relaxed, like someone who had at last found peace.

"I am one with the Old Gods and the Old Gods are with me. For the Direwolf Lord..."

Ayric raised his vibro-sword in respect and separated his enemy's head from the shoulders.

 _There must be after all something like justice..._

His opponent eliminated, Ayric rapidly looked around the clearing, where most of the fighting was over. Unfortunately, the good news did not jump to the eyes, because what he contemplated was a true carnage. Corpses and human parts littered the ground, with intestines dangling around trunks and small bushes. There was only one Northerner left standing on his legs, yes...but this lone rebel was only fighting two Westerners, one being easily recognisable as Raff Preslan due to his body size. None of the bodies on the ground were doing more than spasm in their death throes...and at the other extremity, the second Lannister soldier named Tion Magellan weakened under a forceful return of a warhammer crackling with energy.

Running over the bodies of Rock Corporal Quenten Moreden and Assault Corporal Waldos Westerster, Ayric tried to reach the other duel, cursing himself not to have been more aware of the general situation.

He was too slow. One or two seconds before being able to engage the last member of the Northern party, Tion Magellan was blasted on the ground, half of his sword arm mangled by the pulverizing power of the warhammer and the rest of his body not in a better state.

Fortunately, the opponent had also been caught in the fog of war like Ayric had been, and only parried in catastrophe the attack of his new enemy. This allowed Preslan to plunge his own weapon in the back...and then it was the end. The warhammer fell on the ground, its source of power waning. Agonising, the Northerner could only oppose little resistance as the two Lannister soldiers plunged their vibro-swords in the weaknesses of the battle-armour and butchered him.

"You could have come to the rescue sooner...Sir." Managed to articulate Preslan as Ayric stabbed his vibro-sword into the Northerner's gut and approached Tion.

"Apologies, Sergeant. But my opponent was a bit more dangerous than I believed..."

The sarcasm was dark, and the situation of Soldier 2nd class Tion Magellan was darker. One look at his subordinate was limpid to observe the wounded Westerner needed a lot of medical help. Help a well-supplied military hospital had about fifty-fifty chance to provide if he was delivered in time.

The few bandages and the antiseptic the nine men had managed to save before the battle were grossly inadequate. The left leg, the arms, the chest...everything was so mangled, so full of blood. Stitches and other improvised field medicine were useless in such cases. Perhaps if help was on its way, some gestures could have helped. If their short formations before being catapulted to the frontlines had included them, of course. But they hadn't and help wasn't on its way. There was no salvation in a circle of hundreds of kilometres. The navy, the army...they were all dead or in prisoner camps.

"This is...the end?"

The voice of Tion was weak. The words were blurred and tired. With dread in his heart, Ayric for the first time fully realised they were the same age.

 _Eighteen years old. He should be too young to die like this..._

"Yes. Tion..." Ayric grabbed the most undamaged hand with his hand, covering his armoured fist in blood. Alas the Western soldier did not appear to hear the voices of the living or his gesture anymore...

"I'm sorry. My family..."

And these were his last words. The light in the green eyes faded. The movements rarefied and the breath inspirations became shorter. And then it was the silence. Ayric closed at last the eyelids of his brother-in-arms.

"Lie in peace. Son of Lannisport." Raff Preslan muttered similar words on his right. Both surviving soldiers looked at each other, then watched the clearing which had just been turned into a battlefield.

Now that the clash of combat had ended, it was even more nauseating. In the fury of the battle, both Westerners and Northerners had torn apart each other. There was so much blood and parts on the ground...the light of the sun close to its zenith transformed it into a pool of blood.

 _Thank goodness we haven't a god of murder and carnage in the Western Sector. Some madman might start to shout 'Blood for the Blood God' or such other nonsense after seeing this..._

"Have we the time to bury them?" Grumbled Raff Preslan. The huge Sergeant was as disturbed as him by this butchery, by the looks of things.

"Yes. Probably." Ayric's voice lacked a lot of certainty. After what had happened..." I mean, by the racket we did, if there were other Northern troops in the area, they would be already there and gunning us down. We haven't exactly been the shining knights of discretion..."

"That way our dead won't be eaten by the crows." The remark of the Sergeant was timed to perfection: just as he had finished uttering this sentence, a black bird descended from the skies and went to perch on the corpse of Lamion Fartorne.

"All right. But we leave the corpse of Fartorne to them. It's thanks to him we're down to two again."

"No skin off my- wait a second, why are they so many bloody crows?"

Ayric brusquely turned his attention towards the trees and realised they were full of said bad-augury birds, with more arriving at each instant. There had to be already scores of them at a quick estimation. And they appeared to be fixing the two men left standing with what seemed malevolent glares.

 _I know many follow the armies to feed on the corpses after a battle, but that much..._

"Back to back." Ordered the Lieutenant 3rd class of the Western army, grabbing his vibro-sword and taking position against the back of the much taller Preslan. "Protect your head and-"

The flow of birds did not let him finish the warning. Like a single being, they plunged in a dark night cloud on one of the Northerner corpses. But instead of eating it, which was the infamous and repulsive act the crows were renowned for, the scavenger birds melted with the deceased follower of the Old Gods.

And then impossibly, frighteningly, it rose.

 _No! Not this crap again!_

Ayric had still haunting memories of this nightmarish fight against the dead Bolton soldier-not to mention the ones against alive and tenacious trackers- and it had been when Preslan and he were still in relatively good shape. If this thing was as dangerous, they were dead men, simple as that.

Taking the laser rifle of Quenten Moreden lying on the ground, Ayric tried to shoot the creature forming but the result was a pathetic showing. The figure forming was absorbing hundreds of crows and each laser shot only killed one bird.

Ultimately the rifle was empties of its capacity. Under the two men's angered eyes, there were no more carrion feeders to absorb, and a two-meter tall entity stood in the middle of the ferociously-fought clearing. Its appearance was of a hooded, humanoid figure. Humanoid, not man. The hood was just for show, and did not dissimulate the face of the thing. Because there was no way it was a man. The colour was a livid-sickly white which was sometimes found on the trees, but never in men or animals. The traits were ones which could have been seen if a sculptor carved a human visage on a tree with a modest realism. But the real problem was the eyes. Where humans had pupils, iris and everything else, there were instead inhuman, terrifying red globes promising fiery death. Three shining red eyes, partially hidden under a veil of darkness. The two Westerners shivered as a cold wind flew in the Frey woods.

Suddenly the sun was clouded and not providing the warmth it delivered moments before. The breath of the two Lannister-sworn troopers formed clouds. Transpiration ran cold in their armours. The vibro-swords were in position, ready to attack at the slightest hint of aggression. And then the figure spoke in a perfect Westerosi.

"Salutations, warriors."

For a moment, the two Westerners stayed there gob-smacked. After a long moment of silence Ayric asked.

"What are you?"

"What are you? How rude." The hooded figure made a click with an appendage that was certainly not a human tongue. "You may call me...the three-eyed crow. I came to deliver important information to you, Ayric Sarring, Raff Preslan."

"You know our names?" Weeks later, the disconcerted Lieutenant would remember it as a particular stupid question, but in the present astonishment dominated.

"I know many things." Replied enigmatically the strange being. "I know you two are destined for great and terrible things."

"I'm sorry; you must have confounded us for Lord Tywin Lannister and his brother."

Unfortunately, the humour went straight over the so-called three-eyed crow. A very furious glare was sent at the two men covered in blood, who took a step back faced with this menacing attitude.

"There is no mistake. The Great Enemy has returned. The Chosen Heroes must unite or we all fall in the cold embrace of the Long Night."

The light of the three red eyes was persuasive and intimidating, there was no doubt about it. Despite being relatively safe in his battle-armour, Ayric felt his very body freeze at this prospect. The atmosphere was getting simply horrific. The Long Night...it was just a dark legend of the First Men, right? Something the Northerners and those ancient Houses used to frighten their children and curb their wildling tendencies. Right?

 _Yes, and the corpse which tried to kill you last time was a legend too?_ Whispered a little voice in his head.

"Assuming you're right...what exactly do you expect us to do? We aren't lords! We aren't knights! We have no armies, no fleet of warships to command! We are just simple soldiers, cut off from our lines. We may make a difference in a battle or two, but it's not us who are going to muster millions of guns to war. Sorry, but that's the truth."

By the Seven Heavens Ayric didn't know why he tried to excuse himself to this nightmarish mix of crow and man...ah, yes, he had tried to shoot it.

"Completely agree with the Lieutenant here, crow-thing!" Drawled Raff Preslan, retrenched in his big-bad 'Sergeant persona'. "Why don't you go bother those who have the real power? These silver-haired pimples on their ugly throne have all the armies you want!"

The last remark hit home, apparently. A sort of grimace deformed the wooden-shaped face, like if the thing had tried once to attract the attention of the royalty and been firmly denied.

"The Great Enemy is coming." Repeated the 'three-eyed crow'. "His forces are massing. Already, the Call of Power has sounded. This was the first sign of seven."

 _This corpse...it was just part of the first warning?_

Seeing their confusion and the tension in their muscles, the being shook his head.

"I see you doubt me. Very well. When the Blackstone Fortresses will fall, you will know the rightfulness of my predictions. And this time you will listen, or our galaxy will pay the price."

And on this last sentence, the figure dissolved into an endless swarm of dark birds, croaking mockingly at the humans. The temperatures rose back to their normal levels. The dark clouds disappeared. The sun warmed up the atmosphere. The traces of frost melted as if they had never existed.

In less than a minute, it was like what Ayric and Raff had lived was nothing more than a bad dream. Unfortunately, the two Westerners could not accuse ghostly hallucinations to be the cause of this phenomenon. All the corpses in the clearing had disappeared, leaving only their identification chips and the traces of blood behind.

"That takes care of the burials, I suppose."

At the same time Ayric was trying very hard not to think about what the three-crow eyes was going to do with all these bodies. Nothing good, in all probability.

"No respect for the bodies of our men." The affirmation of Preslan was delivered in a very threatening rumble. His superior could not disagree.

"What are we going to do?" Demanded the big Sergeant as the metallic plaques of the deceased Westerners were taken and put in their packs.

"Well, the long war continues."

Fatalistic approach, but the situation was not joyous. They had gone back to the strength they were three months ago, two men in the wilderness, trying to evade the rebels and somehow survive. At least their good luck had held: there were no supersonic booms or loud reactor roars announcing the presence of enemy reinforcements. For now.

Thus Ayric and his -in theory- loyal companion left the blood-soaked clearing behind forever after having erased on their armours the biggest part of the human remains in a nearby river. They marched in silence for several hours, and it was only at the next break Raff grilled him the burning question that had no doubt trotted in his head for the last hours.

"What are the Blackstone Fortresses?"

"I am not absolutely sure...I think I heard in a history manual at the academy there are the name given to the orbital stations orbiting the Ironborn world in the Pyke System. Thousands of years old, they generate...breaker fields of black matter? Or another technologic non-sense like that. According to the rumours, only the dragons had the firepower to make these space citadels surrender."

"But the dragons are dead. These fortresses will never fall."

"For our sake, I hope so. I have no wish to see again this damned three-eyed crow."

The sun commenced his descent on the horizon, bathing the two lone survivors in the reddish light many associated with House Lannister.

"If the Others truly return, what will we have to stop them?"

"Hope? I heard rebellions are built on it after all..."

* * *

 **Ser Valeron Rambton, 05.09.283AAC, Somewhere in the Narrow Void**

The void was really void. It was a really depressing realisation every spacer arrived from time to time, but here looking from the bay of a spaceship, it was taking all its sense. There were no planets, no comets, no asteroid belts, no gas giants. There was simply nothing. Even the light of the nearby stars was distant and muted, as if the blackness had devoured everything between the celestial bodies.

"Well we have found our target." Whispered someone on the bridge of the _Swift Argent_ , interrupting these morose contemplations.

Small whistles and snickers accompanied it in the astrogation, tactical and communication sections. From the corner of his eye, Ser Valeron saw a Warrant Officer giggling as he taped on his console!

 _This remark is not helping at all, but try to explain that to my crew. Men will always be men I suppose._

The report of the _Swift Argent_ 's executive officer was more detailed and professional. It was not terribly surprising. Commander Aurys Blackwaters was a man having nearly no humour in him. A trait that did a lot of disservice to the black-and-white-haired man, given that he was still at this lowly officer rank while his retreat was at best a couple of years away. On the other hand, you could count on him to stay on duty while the rest of the men were already drunk or had charged for the whorehouses of whatever planet they were currently orbiting.

"Ser Captain, we have the transport we search in range of our sensors."

"Are we sure this time it's the true one and not a Lysene hull or a false contact like last time?"

It would be clearly unprofessional to say 'like the last hundred merchants we caught up with', and thus the commanding officer of the battlecruiser did not say it.

"Yes, Ser Captain. I triple-checked the information before bringing it to you."

"Good, good." Affirmed Senior Captain Valeron, ignoring the way the 'Ser' had been pronounced. He knew very well Aurys Blackwaters disapproved the means of how his knighthood had been earned, and this was neither the first time nor the tenth his second made insinuations in that direction. As long as the man continued to do impeccably his job-unlike some others officers aboard this warship- the Rambton knight was ready to pass on minor quibbles.

Ser Valeron looked at the tiny icon representing his target on his three-dimensional tactical display that was growing as the minutes passed and the distance between it and his warship closed. The _Blue Labyrinth_. In itself, the ship represented on the display and the various screens of the diamond-shaped bridge had nothing remarkable. It was an ordinary transport of half a million tons, like hundreds of others making the travel each day in the darkness of the Narrow Void between the Westerosi Systems and the Essossi Free Planets. It had no armament. It had no engines able to outdistance warships. It had no furtive system able to dissimulate itself to military sensors. It was not brand-new; according to the information duly collected by the authorities of Dragonstone at his last passage near the Gullet, this starship was close to twelve years old.

No, there were only two important things about the _Blue Labyrinth_. It was a Lorathi ship...and it transported Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Prince-no, King Rhaegar's eldest child.

 _It is a good thing it had nothing to hide with because we spent over three weeks hunting it! Why, one or more to day and the Blue Talon would have reached the endless asteroid belts of the Stepstones...and good luck finding a transport in that_!

This monumental delay was not the fault of one Valeron Rambton, of course. Only an idiot would have given the order to search the entirety of the Blackwater Rift, the gigantic amount of space between the Capital System and the Dragonstone one with only one warship! Sadly, when the idiot was named Lord Jon Connington acting in the name of Crown-no, King Rhaegar, you obeyed.

 _I should have sent Connington's envoy packing like the other Dragonstone skippers,_ regretted Valeron _. The Crown Prince hadn't yet been crowned; I could have ignored his orders._

The promise of promotion, power and riches had been too strong, sadly. Being placed on the short list for Junior Rear Admiral, a jump of no less than three ranks, was not something an officer could afford to refuse!

"There is a problem, however." Continued Commander Aurys, studying attentively the display constantly updated in front of him.

"There always is." Sighed the Captain of the Battlecruiser sworn to the Iron Throne. The last weeks had seen them accumulate at an alarming rate, by the way. "Tell me."

"We are still a bit too far to have a complete holo-picture of the situation, but I think the _Blue Labyrinth_ has a military escort. The void engines equipping it are quite distinctive."

The Master of the Swift Argent watched with redoubled scrutiny the data handed by his second, but did not manage to see anything conclusive. That said, if his second was affirming there was another ship, the probability was high there was at least something there.

"Marvellous. Simply marvellous!" Growled the Driftmark noble.

"Lieutenant Saeryon, please go inform the Special Delegate Tarkien we have an issue which concern our orders."

A blonde-haired young man who had been busy snickering in the Communications section briefly saluted and left the bridge.

 _It's not like if he has been doing anything useful lately..._

"Are you sure, Ser Captain?" The voice of Aurys was transpiring with distaste. From the moment Tarkien had come aboard the _Swift Argent_ , the two of them had not stopped butting heads.

 _Usually I would take my second's side...usually. Fact is, our good-old commander is really bad at seeing the way the political winds flow at this period of the year._

By millennia-old traditions so ancient no one truly remembered who had established it, a captain was sole master below the Gods on his warship. Thus Ser Rambton in theory should not have to demand the advice of everyone aboard his spatial command. The theory unfortunately often caught up with reality, and Ser Valeron was no stranger to the backstabbing and betrayals agitating from time to time the Fleet of the Crown Sector. Stopping a Lorathi warship could be considered by certain an act of war, and if heads had to roll, Valeron Rambton would defend his with all the weapons at his disposition. Tarkien was going to make the decision, and with it take the greatest part of the glory...or the blame when the politics decided to intervene.

If House Rambton had been more influential in the Great Game between Houses...but the Rambton lords and knights allegiance went to House Velaryon-like House Sunglass and the other minor households living in the Driftmark System. Accepting the Special Delegate aboard was already a calculated gamble, because if the High Admiral decided to court-martial him...

The distance closed between the Westerosi battlecruiser and the Lorathi transport. Five million kilometres. Three million kilometres. And as slowly but surely the _Swift Argent_ came closer from the edge of its weapon maximal range, Ser Valeron could only assess the fact Commander Blackwaters had indeed been right on the mark. The _Blue Labyrinth_ had a warship escorting it.

Using the dead angles provided by the merchant, the energy expulsed by the void engines the much smaller warship had almost remained undetected, but now the distance was too close for military sensors to be fooled.

"Commander?"

"A Lorathi warship, definitely confirmed, Ser Captain. We are still a bit too far to have more than its tonnage and a basic energy signature, but Tactical has compared it with our copious data base, and Lieutenant Aleron estimate there's a 75 per-cent probability this is a Fisher-class scout cruiser."

Valeron looked at the information on one of his personal screens and did not refrain a sneer. Calling this...thing a scout cruiser was greatly stretching the truth, in his opinion. Eighty thousand tons, this hull was not a scout cruiser, it was a frigate! The Dornish navy scout cruisers, which were the smallest of all the Seven Sectors, were nonetheless weighting ten thousand more tons than this 'Fisher-class'. A true scout cruiser was supposed to weight one hundred to one hundred and thirty thousand tons, not a paltry eighty thousand!

"Look at their armament!" Valeron didn't bother letting his contempt down as he read the multiple files amassed by the intelligence services. "Four missile tubes for things that are conceived to kill starfighters, four small lasers and two ridiculous plasma guns! And their design..."

The Lorathi warship was resembling to none the other scout cruisers in service among the Westerosi or Essossi navies. A huge ring circled the prow, maybe for propulsion purposes, another ring circled the middle of the ship, and there was a sort of rectangular module at the rear. How by the Seven this hull could move, never mind fight, the commanding officer reluctantly admitted inside his brain his ignorance.

"They wouldn't be able to scratch our paint, no matter how far we close!" Laughed an unknown officer in the Engineering section of the bridge. Similar jokes and playful remarks followed in every section controlling the systems of the _Swift Argent_.

"May I suggest a careful approach, Ser Captain?" The advice provided by Commander Blackwaters was courteous, but there was a hint of frost barely dissimulated under it. "The scout cruiser is currently positioning itself to delay us while the transport will rush towards the Stepstones. If the _Blue Labyrinth_ is able to hide in an asteroid belt, we may never find it again."

"What exactly do you suggest, Commander?"

The joyous atmosphere on the bridge disappeared and most of the men tried urgently to find something to do least they attract the attention of the new arrival.

'Special Delegate of King Rhaegar' Willem Tarkien had arrived, and his first words translated clearly his arrogant mood. By all rights, Tarkien was on the bridge only at Valeron's invitation, but seeing the youngster face-to-face, an impartial observer would have found no clues to validate this assumption. Unlike all the crew who were wearing the gold uniform of the Crown Navy with diverse sigils to show their patron or House's allegiance, Willem Tarkien wore a red and black uniform, with the so-famous three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on his chest. His hairs were blonde-silver, confirming his blood-relationship to one of House Targaryen distant cousin lines. And three or four of his own men followed him, weapons in their holsters and in their backs. A sneer appeared on a face that could not be older than thirty years.

"You fear we won't be able to destroy this pitiful excuse of a warship?"

Aurys Blackwaters answer was measured, but for someone who knew him the frustration was visible under the surface.

"Of course not. We have a battlecruiser of one million and two hundred thousand tonnes, they have a scout cruiser with weapons unable to pierce our hull. In a straight fight, there's no way they can fight us." The executive officer paused before developing his point. "What I truly fear is that the Lorathi warship is going to run home and tell what happened here."

Tarkien did evidently not share the same view.

"So? By the time he starts to cry on his miserable planet, we will have brought the Princess at King's Landing!"

"Yes, we will have the Princess back in her father's arms..." Blackwaters' expression showed how 'safe' he thought someone was to be in presence of a Targaryen King by 283AAC. And with a non-feigned repulsion the second looked at his younger interlocutor and spoke. "We will have also committed an act of war in non-controlled Westerosi space."

"And this is supposed to frighten me?" Tarkien's voice looked astonished, as if someone in the Crown Navy could be fearful of that. "I have given a mission to accomplish. Unlike you, I will not shy from my duty. My King has commanded me to bring his child home, and I-WILL-NOT-FAIL!"

Commander Aurys made a vigorous negative sign with his head.

"Don't be stupid. Lorath is nothing more than a client of Braavos, and you know it! Perhaps you're content to just wash your hands of the bloodshed, but the Braavosi Navy is not going to stay idle if one of their allies' ships is attacked! We could have one of their super-carriers squadrons annihilating the Dragonstone fleet next month!"

The man sworn to House Targaryen and whose exact place in the Crown ranks was somewhat a mystery did not share that particular view.

"The Braavosi Navy is formidable in deep space, but the combined might of our more conventional fleets is far enough to placate them."

"Really? Unless you have not noticed, our fleet has been utterly destroyed at the Trident! We haven't anything-"

"Coward and defeatist!" Screamed the Special Delegate named by King Rhaegar Targaryen, before making a sign to his red-and-black armoured men behind him.

To his credit, Aurys didn't try to resist. The guards put the manacles on him, and then two of them escorted him out of the bridge, his status as a prisoner unmistakeable.

"Send him to the ship's cells." The satisfaction in Tarkien's voice was perceptible, and with a slight delay Valeron realised the Royal envoy had wanted to remove the executive officer from the start...and if he was prepared to remove the second of a warship, he could very well decide to remove others.

 _Like me._

"There he will have all the time to prepare his defence for the court-martial awaiting him at the capital." The warning had been told high and loud to the entire bridge. Willem Tarkien turned his attention towards Valeron Rambton.

"Destroy this scout cruiser, Captain, then neutralise the transport." The lips of the noble opened what a bard would have considered a parody of smile.

"Once the Princess is safely aboard the Swift Argent, leave no survivors on the transport or the scout cruiser."

"As you wish." The reply tore the gut of Valeron, but there was simply no alternate reply to give. If he refused and Tarkien was as connected with the King as he feared, then his career, his honour, his fortune, everything would crash down. If some upstart Lorathi had to pay the price, then so be it.

"Nothing can stop us now." Gloated Tarkien.

 _You could almost believe with this man we're doing something proud and noble. I just wish his last sentence is not going to jinx us..._

The volume of space between the battlecruiser of the Dragonstone Fleet and the Lorathi escort sensibly diminished in the next minutes, the latter obviously slowing its acceleration and relative speed. Despite its capacity to outdistance the _Swift Argent_ , the lighter Lorathi vessel was doing nothing of the sort. The transport _Blue Labyrinth_ was coming closer too, but slower than predicted and it left its escort behind. Now the civilian hull was red-lining gravity compensators, reactors and all its engineering parts, giving it a meteorically increase of fifteen per-cent over the maximum acceleration it should theoretically be capable of.

It was not going to be enough for a successful escape.

"We have just passed the four hundred thousand kilometres mark, Ser Captain." Announced Lieutenant Commander Maekar Voron, acting both as Tactical Officer and interim-Executive Officer since Blackwaters removal. There was a large smile on his face...the man was genuinely content at the idea of massacring an enemy which could not reply effectively.

"In that case, Lieutenant, open fire."

"By your orders!"

The _Swift Argent_ slightly shuddered as a significant wave of missiles erupted from its trident-shaped edge. Lieutenant Voron had made his choice for a straight and devastating approach: twelve missiles, the maximum amount a battlecruiser of the Crepuscular class could launch and control, were activated and launched on its small Essossi opponent.

Thousands of kilometres away, the Lorathi warship did not retaliate with a wave of missiles on its own, for the simple reason it could not. The range of escorts was generally inferior to their bigger counterparts, having none of the massive capital ship-killer missiles in their armouries.

 _Which means they won't be able to shoot back until we have finished our first attack. Game over._

"In eight minutes and ten seconds, this Lorathi ship is going to be nothing but a memory." The manner Tarkien announced the news could have been presented for a very bothersome chore you were forced to do once in a while.

And then all the tactical displays sounded strident alarms and flashed red, yellow or black messages of alert. The spacemen of the Crown fleet were all professional and had practised these scenarios in training...maybe once a year? As a result, Tactical and the other sections of the bridge reacted...in controlled panic?

"MISSILES! MISSILES INCOMING!"

"STAND BY MISSILE DEFENCE! STAND BY MISSILE DEFENCE!"

"LAUNCH ANTI-MISSILES IN TUBE ONE AND TWO! NOW!

Valeron screamed a series of orders to the helmsman, they had to evaluate the new threat, they had to maximise their position in order to use the maximum of anti-missiles available, they had-

A quick look at the global tactical display informed him it wasn't going to matter. From the bridge's bay and its surface of supraglass, brilliant comets of fire came and struck the _Swift Argent_ in the rear. The battlecruiser shook like a gigantic warhammer had struck it. Several consoles of the bridge shut down while sparks appeared from several electrical joints. Secondary explosions below their feet sent quite a few officers on their butts or their knees, although the majority had managed to grab something unmovable and use it to stay on their two legs. But as the explosions calmed down and the _Swift Argent_ dramatically slowed down, the first screams and calls came from every part of the bridge.

If the seconds before had been controlled chaos or chaotic order depending on the perspective, now it was just chaos. Damage control specialists of every post sent their reports with the same level of priority and torrent of orders and counter-orders were spoken into the different speakers connecting the officers with the rest of the warship.

"Tubes one and two destroyed. Five dead, eight wounded."

"Compartment six and seven are opened on space! Do something!"

"We have lost the void engines! We have lost-"

"Seal the compartments, you can do nothing-"

"Oh, by the Mother, we have suffered a direct strike here, the entire battery is dead! Please-"

"Fusion one restored to full power in ten seconds, but the controls are all grilled for Fusion two-"

"No survivors in Compartment Nineteen. I repeat, no survivors in Compartment Nineteen-"

Valeron tried his best to coordinate the answer to this disaster, but the magnitude of the destruction was overwhelming. Many compartments supposed to resist the impact of heavy warheads had utterly been pulverised by this honourless and traitorous attack! The infirmary was overcrowded, the maesters and the female healers working there were completely overworked: there were hundreds of heavily wounded spacemen being directed in their direction and they had had no more warning than Valeron had to prepare.

But as Tactical sensors were finally redeployed to present a coherent view of the battlefield, a new silhouette was revealed from the shadows of the void allowing the _Swift Argent_ 's crew to see its tormentor.

"Impossible!" Gasped a Lieutenant, pausing momentarily giving orders before realising the search and rescues efforts took priority near the missile tube four. Similar exclamations of incredulity echoed thorough the bridge.

Valeron didn't blame them. Contrary to the Lorathi Fisher-class, nearly everyone knew the name of this one.

 _So the things which shot us were Rogue starfighters?_

"Northern escort carrier Vigilance-class behind us!" Spit venomously Maekar Voron.

"A Northerner? Here in the Narrow Void? How is it supposed to be possible!" Special Delegate Tarkien had been staying alone against the tactical display, and his face was now completely livid. "How in the Seven Hells could Northerners have found us so close to the Stepstones! There is a major breach in our intelligence services!"

"They didn't find us. They have followed us from the moment we left Dragonstone!" Exclaimed a Warrant Officer trying to make makeshift repairs on his terminal, and failing if the odour of burnt components was anything to judge by.

"Ridiculous! Northern technology is completely obsolete! We would have seen them millions of kilometres away!"

"Can we still execute our mission?" Asked Valeron Rambton.

"Of course we can! Or are you-" The expression of Willem Tarkien went from astonishment to deep outrage.

"Be silent!" Snapped the commanding officer of the damaged warship. Tarkien looked around, seemingly searching for his guards, and realising they had all gone within the entrails of the ship doing rescue operations. Apparently bereft of any argument not including the threat of pure violence, the King's delegate stared with his mouth wide open.

"Better. Lieutenant Roventon, can we still accomplish our mission?"

The last engineer of formation left on the bridge, a brown-haired young man who was five seconds ago rapidly speaking in his com to diverse officers busy to restart the critical systems of a fusion reactor, raised his head over the console and commenced to speak in a rapid rhythm of elocution.

"I don't see how, Ser Captain. The void engines are completely crippled, we are going to need a long stay in a military shipyard to repair them. Without them, we will be limited to our conventional reactors, and by definition they weren't conceived for long travels outside a gravity dwell. We can't catch the Blue Labyrinth in our state, not to mention we won't be able to manoeuvre-"

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

The Swift Argent's captain had no wish to hear what he knew in his heart: his beloved warship in this state wasn't going to survive the fight with a Northern escort carrier. The new opponent had only the size of a light cruiser and twenty starfighters of the 'Rogue' type, but the preliminary reports showed the _Swift Argent_ 's durasteel hull was torn apart on the rear and the entirety of the right side. One more missile at the wrong place would be enough to finish it...and twenty starfighters meant twenty chances to do it.

"Actually, Ser Captain, I wasn't finished."

One more time, Valeron wondered at the inability of the engineers to recognise when they got near a political minefield. This lack of self-preservation was simply extraordinary.

"Your Captain gave you-" Tried to intervene Tarkien, but this time the Senior Captain's rebuke arrived in time.

"That will be all, Lieutenant!"

"We are receiving a transmission from the Lorathi warship, Ser Captain!" Announced Lieutenant Caveryon in the Communications.

"They're still alive?"

In hindsight, this was not the most intelligent comment Valeron could ever have made in the presence of his senior subordinates but shame would have to wait for its hour. Studying the last minutes of fighting, the knight belonging to House Rambton realised they had completely forgotten in all these eight minutes to activate the attack profiles of the twelve missiles targeting the Lorathi destroyer!

 _What a catastrophe_ , thought the Crown officer. _Twelve missiles, all wasted because I left no one at Tactical to keep an eye on them._

With such a predictable attack, the scout cruiser had had no difficulties shooting the offensive warheads one by one, a task facilitated further by the fact three had completely went off-course due to technical problems and detonated harmlessly half a million kilometres away. One missile seemed to have exploded relatively close, but the damage had been only superficial, nothing to compare to the thrashing the Swift Argent had just received.

 _And now we face two enemies instead of one. Fantastic._

Valeron taped a code on his screen, and accepted the communication.

The image of a Lorathi with half his face painted blue and the other painted grey appeared less than three seconds later. The Essossi commander had the expression of a man who had just seen his wildest dreams be accepted...and went right to the problem's core.

"A man advises this man to surrender immediately."

"I still have far enough firepower to destroy you and your minable warship, Lorathi!"

"A man acknowledges what this man says. But a man also knows this man's warship is going to be destroyed. And this man's surrender will not be accepted by this man's other enemies."

In Valeron's back, the voice of Lieutenant Commander Maekar Voron spoke, the panic and the fear overriding the military training.

"Captain, the Northern fighters have been rearmed! They are re-launching..."

The Lorathi officer continued with a thin smile.

"What is the choice of this man?"

Ser Valeron Rambton, Senior Captain of the Crown Sector's fleet opened his mouth to answer...and then there was a bang. There was pain...and everything went dark.

* * *

 **Lord Varys, 20.09.283AAC, King's Landing System**

The Master of Whisperers could honestly affirm inwardly that after a life as long and adventurous as his, he had seen plenty of disturbing events happening around him.

But watching the recording of the holo-video where a man sworn to House Targaryen shot repeatedly in cold blood the Captain of a Crown battlecruiser while he had his back turned...that was a dire reminder he had not seen everything.

 _And I think there will be far more awful things to see when the dust of this civil war settles..._

"I suppose this is all over by the Free Planets by now?" Varys demanded to Illyrio, as the holo-video continued and the officers on the bridge of the _Swift Argent_ looked bewilderingly at each other, before half a score drew their personal laser pistols and ended the life of Special Delegate Tarkien. A few seconds later, a formal demand of surrender was transmitted to the Lorathi Captain and accepted. The recording ended there.

"It is." Answered his friend, sipping tranquilly one of the finest liquors which were exported from his Pentoshi holdings. "For people with a such curious grammar, the Lorathi still understand very well the notions of public opinion and propaganda."

"No one has ever said 'a man' had to be stupid."

A small laugh came out of the lips of his brother-in-law. Two glasses were raised in the direction of the King's Landing metropolis spreading in the distance. From this luxurious apartment at the 57th floor of the Mopatis Tower, the panorama offered by the chief city of Westeros was almost peaceful.

Almost.

Varys sometimes thought the idiots dumb enough to fall for it were the luckiest men on the planet...because the King's Landing System was certainly a lot of things, but peaceful was not one of them.

The smoke produced by the diverse ordnances fired during the coup was gone, but several skyscrapers on the horizon were missing some pieces. Riots at night were bloodying the back-alleys as gangs fought for scraps of pillaged military equipment. Septons who had taken the cause of their highest authority were persecuted or assassinated following the assassination of their leader.

"True, true. It goes without saying this is a disaster...for House Targaryen."

"Oh, absolutely."

In fact disaster was a very...conservative word for the situation. Quite frankly, Varys was completely amazed by the bad news coming with this really short butchery. Shooting a missile salvo towards the warship of a neutral nation, check. Princess Rhaenys having safely arrived to Dorne, check. Losing a battlecruiser and having the surviving crew prisoners of the Lorathi, check. A rebel escort carrier managing to sneak up on a Crown warship, check. Having the next best thing to a collapse of military authority in the middle of a battle, check.

Assuming someone would have asked him to engineer a catastrophe of this magnitude, Varys honestly admitted he would not have done better.

"Unfortunately we are not able to profit from this fiasco and we probably never will."

The atmosphere grew darker. Serra had been so happy to have a child of her own after everything the two of them had been forced to endure...and now this future was gone.

The son the last descendents of the Blackfyre dynasty had prayed in their dreams had been still-born. His sweet little sister would never be able to bear a child again, consequence of a disease badly treated and centuries of genetic disorders. Varys himself was a eunuch and thus unable to sire anyone. The Blackfyre name, forged in the flames of rebellion, was going to die at last, not in a great glorious battle but in a whimper.

"There...may be a solution." Varys ceased the long contemplation of the red wine in his glass and looked at his Pentoshi partner-in-crime. Illyrio's expression was far, far removed than his usual 'innocent and affable' one.

Varys understood immediately however what his accomplice referred to. After all, he had helped engineering the scheme and trained the agents involved himself.

 _Too bad I had to send them to Pentos after that. One or two would have been really useful when Downfall was launched..._

"The girl?"

"The girl."

"Has Serra...is Serra fine with this? I know we considered it as a plan of last recourse but-"

"It was her idea actually." Illyrio laughed at Varys' apparent discomfiture. "Oh, don't be so shocked, my friend. Your sister is quite wilful when she puts her mind into something."

Wilful. Yes, Varys had to recognise it characterised his sister perfectly.

"That still leave us with several problems." Plenty of lengthy machinations were estimated and then discarded in the Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency's head. "A woman always comes after a man in the succession to the Iron Throne."

"I would have thought assassinating...there's three male Targaryens alive, no?" Varys nodded. "Thank you. As I said, assassinating three persons of the Royal Family is not beyond your legendary assassins' skills."

"It's not." During Downfall, fleeing from his demolished headquarters had demanded four times that many killings by his own hand.

 _Jon Connington's debt to me grew considerably heavier that day...once the fighting starts anew, I will make sure his demise is slow and awful._

"But I'm worried that when we will be in position to pull the trigger, there won't be only three of them anymore. And there are other daughters of Targaryen blood."

"Ah, yes...the King is going to be married again...to the Lord of Casterly Rock's daughter, isn't it?"

"And in all likelihood, the new Prince of Dragonstone will be officially betrothed to Mace Tyrell's only daughter when the two are of age."

Varys was not betraying any secrets here; for the last weeks this move had been known to all the players in the Red Keep.

"This is not good." The two senior leader of the Blackfyre conspiracy looked at each other gravely...before bursting in a full-blown laughter. It was not good...for the Targaryens. It would take some years, but Varys was sure that at the end, House Lannister and House Tyrell were going to be at each other's throat.

 _And if not I will make sure they are. Not that I think they will need a lot of help on that front_...

The Pentoshi magister handed a data chip to the Master of Whisperers. "Some of the ideas we had for the future."

"And your 'daughter', I suppose?"

"Yes." Illyrio smiled in a proud manner before adding:

"Serra decided to name her Rhaenyra, by the way."

"Rhaenyra."

 _Rhaenyra Blackfyre. Well at least my 'niece' will have a name ready to give the Targaryens huge nightmares_. _Few have forgotten what the first Rhaenyra did...the Dance of Dragons was not the kind of thing one forgets. Moreover, there would be an ironic justice in the fact a namesake restored the rights of the women the last true queen lost_.

"How fares the war by the way?"

Varys face was grim, thinking about the rising mountain of casualties.

 _At least the civilian ones have been limited to this point..._

"For the moment, the conflict is at a stalemate. The Targaryens are trying to take the Crossroads and the Fairmarket Systems, and monumentally failing. The Northerners were in an increasing difficult position at the Maidenpool talks, especially after this attack on Seagard, but the arrival of the Braavosi on scene will break the existing balance."

Varys was in the presence of one of the rare persons he trusted, and thus instead of staying impassive, his visage contorted in an ugly grimace.

The Ironborn attack was a sore subject for his little birds in the Crown Intelligence Agency, for the main reason he had been totally unable to predict it. A fact that no one in the highest spheres of King's Landing had had the reluctance to not speak about, though the critics had been even more ignorant of the matter than him. Oh, and they routinely told the King and whoever was around victory was around if they sent one more fleet jumping in a rebel-held system.

So far, it had translated into scores of warships becoming scrap material and thousands trained spacemen dead.

 _Sometimes, I wonder how Westeros has survived as a sole kingdom with such idiots at its head...truly the imbecility and the corruption have infiltrated everything_.

"Any idea what Lord Quellon Greyjoy was thinking?"

"I suppose the rumours he suffered from a debilitating disease were closer from the truth than I thought."

This time the Pentoshi and the Blackfyre exchanged disgusted looks. Both had spent the last five years to cultivate friendships and allies of circumstances in the vast shipyards-also known as hives of villainy- the Ironborn reavers frequented. In less than one month, all this investment had been wiped out.

Deathly ill or not, there was no question Lord Quellon Greyjoy had launched what was certainly a suicide attack on Seagard. The System was nicknamed 'the shield of the river sector' for a reason, and would have required no less than a total mustering of the Iron Fleet and all the Greyjoy bannersmen to have a chance of victory.

As a consequence, when about twenty-five warships of the 'longship' variety threw themselves in the core of the Mallister orbital defences while the defending fleet was left free to catch them in the rear, either the attacking commander was an idiot...or he simply didn't want to live. After less than two hours of furious fighting, three longships had managed to escape, bringing back to Pyke with them the corpse of Lord Quellon. Hundreds of Ironborn Illyrio and Varys had planned to use for their own purposes had remained behind, floating endlessly in the domain of their Void God.

"Would Quellon's eldest son Balon be agreeable to the sort of plans we proposed his father?"

"No."

Varys had had the displeasure of meeting the Heir of Pyke once. To say the Master of Whisperers had not been impressed was the understatement of the century.

"Ah, regrettable." Touching his chin, Illyrio wasn't finished. "But his brothers?"

 _Ah yes, them._

"They are even less suitable than him. The cadet has...a dark reputation shadowing him like a plague. The rumours surrounding him would make a Dothraki pale in shame. Rapes, human sacrifices, free slaughter of merchant ships...this Greyjoy is perhaps one of the few men in Westeros able to defeat the defunct Aerys the Mad in a challenge of insanity. The third is an idiot with a vibro-axe and a heavy battle-armour, the fourth and the fifth pass the majority of their time drowning themselves in alcohol...Quellon was a good lord, but he didn't manage to pass his qualities to his son."

"You're not joking..."

"The Targaryens are not the only ones suffering from mental problems in this decade." Declared the master spy.

 _Not that it is that surprising. The Ironborn have bred very few geniuses in the last three hundred years. Sometimes I think the intelligent ones got roasted with Harren the Black at Harrenhal..._

"What is the King going to do?"

"Dealing with the miserable reality his plans have landed us in?" Proposed Varys, who rolled his shoulders in amusement before adopting a more serious expression.

"Rhaegar has named two new Kingsguards to replace the ones lost in the civil war he has done so much to start. Ser Rufus Staunton and Ser Buford Bulwer have sworn their vows and taken the white."

"Never heard of them before."

"Normal. These two knights were virtually no-names when the hostilities commenced. I think Rhaegar was in a hurry to fill the losses before the Tyrells and the Lannisters proposed their own candidates."

"Logical." Commented Illyrio.

Nevertheless, that it was logical did not mean it was a very wise move. There were plenty of Houses with second or third-born sons who had distinguished themselves in the Rebellion. Those ones were not going to be amused by this pre-attempt to enter the Kingsguard.

"The Great Council has been more complicated. I kept my post as the Master of Whisperers of course..."

"Of course."

"I think we all know who was the most likely candidate for Hand of the King, but Lord Connington managed to screw things in nuclear fire. Literally. So the King is going to name Lord Walter Whent at the post, maybe hoping that with the nomination of Lord Darry as the new Lord Paramount of the River Sector, some support and influence will return to the area for House Targaryen."

"A day-dream or a possibility?"

"I would tend towards the latter." The man who should have answered to the name Vaelor Blackfyre replied. "Tywin Lannister has been very busy meeting the Brackens and a few other planetary lords, and there are plenty of veterans willing to continue the fight for the Tullys and the Starks."

Varys gulped half of the wine in his glass before continuing his report.

"Unless there are new changes, the new Master of Coin will be a Lannister, probably one of the gold-haired scions of Casterly Rock who are deep in Lord Tywin's pocket. The Master of Laws replacement is Lord Tommen Costayne, to reward the Reach of their disinterested loyalty. I don't know who the new Master of Assassins is. The only moniker I have is 'Lord of the Seven Deaths'."

"And the new Master of Propaganda will be?"

"The new Master of Information" Varys particularly stressed the last word in mockery, "will be Garth 'the Gross' Tyrell."

Under the joke, the Lysene and the Pentoshi understood how vital the position had become in the last decades. In every education establishment of the Seven Sectors, it was this Master and the tens of thousands administrators and bureaucrats who drafted the programs. The bards of all sorts, the information network, the different channels, the digital newspapers...there was an amazing influence which could be deployed at a click of finger.

And the Targaryens had used it in the last years to lie from top to bottom on every single political, economical or military deed. It was not absolute outside the Crown Sector, but even regions like the Marches felt the dark tendrils of King's Landing injunctions. Which was why the Blackfyre conspirators were so eager to return the gigantic propaganda machine against its creators...alas Garth Tyrell was an aristocrat not likely to go bankrupt or betray the entire system which had raised him to the Small Council.

"Apart his family ties, does this man had any real qualifications for the Council position?"

"It entirely depends if you consider 'Lord Seneschal of Highgarden' to be a critical job."

"By your words, I am going to take a minor risk and bet on the contrary."

"Judicious choice." The Master of Whisperers acknowledged. " To be fair, I have not a large file on him. Garth is Lord Mace Tyrell's uncle, he's flatulent, he stinks, he has recognised two bastard sons and has five others living in the good quarters of Oldtown. I believe two of them are students in the Citadel. Two or three decades ago Garth organised a travelling tour in Lys and elsewhere, with the nights ending in debauchery with many, many genetic slaves."

 _And people wonder why the Braavosi think we're not taking the Noros Convention seriously._

"Let's try to work around him for the moment." Decided the magister. "If he becomes a hindrance to our plans, this lord won't be very hard to remove from the game."

On this, the Master of Whisperers was forced to agree. A pig would be more difficult to eliminate than Garth Tyrell.

"Are there any other developments I should be made aware of?"

"None who come to my mind. A new Master of Armies and Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks haven't yet been named. The other former members of the Great Council have all been reconfirmed at their positions. Lucerys Velaryon, Pycelle, Lord Commander Hightower, Alliser Thorne like me have been judged too important to be fired. Or executed. I'm afraid the great decisions and the policies will begin after peace has been signed at Maidenpool. And it will be soon, Rhaegar has finally woken up to the fact he can't win a war against the rebels, Braavos and Dorne at the same time."

"Well," affirmed philosophically Illyrio, "the moral of one fable is that a broken clock is right twice a day, no?"

* * *

 **Lord Wyman Manderly, 31.11.283AAC, Moat Cailin System**

The messenger ship made its jump at the lowest velocity possible to arrive into the Moat Cailin System.

As it reintegrated reality, the reasons for this careful move became very obvious.

An extremely dense spatial minefield was surrounding its point of emergence. Should the spaceship had come faster, the mines would have activated and destroyed without contrition the trespasser.

These were not the only first-line defences. Not even close.

In missile range of the jump point, three gigantic asteroids had been tugged. Each of these rocks had been transformed by the Northern engineers into orbital forts...really huge orbital forts. The smallest of the asteroids was five times the size of a ship of the line. And it had a proportional firepower corresponding to its volume. Plasma, laser and missile batteries had been emplaced behind vast shielded doors. Entire starfighter wings waited in sizeable bays one signal to launch and annihilate any incoming enemy. Immense stocks of mines were ready to replace the holes that any intruder would make in the emplaced killing fields.

From the passenger room of the transport he used, Lord Wyman watched with a certain amount of pride this formidable defensive system. Due to the lack of external bays on Northern warships, watching the stars and the beauty of a planet was an opportunity which rarely came. Besides, his duties thorough the war had made him far too busy to pass hours contemplating the incredible spectacle of nebula, stars and other celestial bodies accomplishing their eternal dances.

The fast transport remained immobile several minutes, the time to exchange identity protocols, expedite security details and deliver priority messages plus other coded transmissions to the High Command.

At last, the comfortable vessel gained speed anew, although a non-Northerner observer would have remained extremely unimpressed by the tortoise's pace the Northern civilian vessel was carrying its crew and passengers. In an ordinary stellar system, they would have been right.

That said, Moat Cailin was anything but ordinary. Past the jump point, the only way forwards for any type of starship was through a large asteroid belt. Any ship wanting to race in that kind of spatial environment was promised a very rapid destruction...and not just because slamming into a floating debris outweighing your ship by tens of thousands tonnes was always a lethal experience. Unseen to the human eye, Lord Wyman knew several of the asteroids in the hundreds present were in reality armed with the most versatile array of weaponry available to the Northern military forces. Supply depots, field hospitals, repair dockyards, ammunition production...technically anything valuable for an heavy-assault fleet could be found in these asteroids...assuming of course you knew where to find them among the thousand similar ones on the sensors.

"And then the first layer of Moat Cailin is passed..." Whispered the Lord of White Harbor, remembering the words of his defunct father Wybor when he had come in this system for the first time.

In appearance, what an enemy strategist would see as he contemplated the same view Wyman did was not that terrible. A single inhabitable planet showing a very green colour, a moderate-sized circle of forts and orbital shipyards...nothing very threatening especially as the Northern navy under Lord Rickard had been very busy expanding civilian facilities orbiting the planet of Moat Cailin but not modernising the orbital fortifications.

Said strategist however should concentrate on the three other asteroid belts in the system, each having somewhere in their chaotic formations the same asteroid bases the first belt did. Unknown to anyone who did not have the need-to know, it was there that the damaged warships, including many built by House Manderly were at the moment repaired. The real forts and mines depots were hidden there too. And if the Moat Cailin System came under attack, there were murmurs that the sum of the space available in the secret installations was more than sufficient to hide the trader fleet and the mobile dockyards which could be watched as the planet nicknamed the 'Gate of the Neck Sub-Sector' grew to the human's eye.

Given the obviously neglected forts and the purely limited merchant dockyards, Moat Cailin as a planet evidently did not have any significant orbital potential...and an intelligent enemy instantly recognised why. It lied with the colour.

Green.

The planet sharing the name with the entire System had no ocean. Or rather, it was more accurate to say the ocean and the planet were one and the same.

Green.

In reality, Moat Cailin was just a gigantic swamp like so many planets of the Neck sub-sector. The Head of House Manderly honestly didn't know if the Green Men were really right about the Children of the Forest sinking the continental landscape of every planet under the sea level; what Wyman knew was that this characteristic made the task of any invader an impossible one.

Assuming an enemy managed to gain control of the Stark fortresses hailing the messenger ship he was in, the attacking fleet would not be able to replenish there. There were extensive self-destruct protocols in place for the forts and the shipyards...and the planet itself was generating gravitic disturbances. Thanks to the information an Admiral of his seniority and rank was privy to, Wyman knew there was no natural celestial explanation, there were millennia-old machines generating these effects. Machines which may or may not be still constructed by the Starks at Winterfell. A mind-boggling and ultra-secret technology which completely cancelled the advantage of an opponent circling hundreds of kilometres above your head.

As a consequence, the sole and only option a victorious enemy had in regard to Moat Cailin was to debark the troops and charge the ten main fortresses built by House Stark. Good luck with that. Despite having not been well-maintained as part of the treaties between King Jaehaerys the Conciliator and House Stark, the agreements aiming to make the North a less warmongering society -or more civilised, the point of view largely differed here- the citadels were a true nightmare to assault.

To make matter worse, the fauna and flora of Moat Cailin were something like a horror holo-movie. Lizard-lions, swamp crocodiles, yellow alligators, fifty-six species of venomous snakes able to kill you in less than a minute, two hundred and nineteen plants dispersing pollen which was synonym of death for a human not wearing chemical breathers. There were man-eating plants and the number of diseases you could contract in this type environment was virtually endless. Writing the definition of a death world in a Westerosi dictionary could have been resumed in the name Moat Cailin.

Two thousand years before the Conquest, a Stark monarch had deliberately goaded the Faith Militant in doing exactly this type of assault. Abandoning the planet and hiding his fleet in the asteroids, King Theon 'the Hungry Wolf' Stark had let the Crusaders set foot in the swamp. Close to two hundred and fifty thousand Faith fanatics in their rainbow armours had pushed to storm the bastions...and then the trap had been closed, the warships crashing on the planet when the gravitic anomalies destroyed their reactors and rolled them like children toys in the middle of a storm.

A quarter of a million men had initially been deposed on Moat Cailin's soil. In less than a month, futile attacks on the fortresses and the rigors of the swamp had murdered this army. The hundreds of survivors were starved and deathly ill, prey for the carnivorous beasts reigning over the planet-sized swamp and the elite crannogmen training themselves in this inhospitable terrain. When the Starks had descended to finish the massacre, it had not been a battle, but a butchery. The fearsome berserkers of the North had offered no quarter, and no man part of the Faith Crusade had ever gone back to the South announcing the disaster. There was just silence. Silence declaring another costly failure to defeat the system-fortress...

 _Now that I think about it, is the Faith not trying ever since to convince the Northerners to give back the holy relics they lost that day? Hmm...yes, yes they do._

Shrugging these amused thoughts no good worshipper of the Seven should ever have in his head, Lord Wyman observed calmly the ship he was currently aboard positioning itself in upper orbit of the planet, just over an image looking like a big whirlwind on the planet below.

"Your shuttle is ready, Admiral." Saluted the second of the messenger ship. "Message has come Lord Stark demands your presence at the Despair Fortress."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Saluted in return the big-boned Admiral. "Lead the way."

Manderly and his party engulfed the shuttle and started seconds after their descent in the putrid atmosphere of Moat Cailin. Courtesy of his exalted rank and the name of the man summoning him, because for a soldier freshly out of the ranks, the waiting list here could take months. The bases built on Moat Cailin were refurbished here since the hostilities had been declared with the Iron Throne...and the rumour mill had spread extremely fantasist rumours about treasures and artefacts found in the renovations. Thus the secrecy and the intensive security measures.

 _I wonder if there's a finger or two of truth in these rumours...bah, I suppose I will know soon enough if there's something interesting._

Fort Despair was nearing in the shuttle's window from a tiny point to a mountain, and then as the gigantic edifice it truly was. Of a grey-black colour and decorated by a ten-meter tall direwolf head, this citadel built while House Manderly was still living in the fertile plains of the Reach was emanating an aura of darkness and intimidation. This was a fortress which had been built for the sole purpose of war, on a planet where every living thing was born to kill and slaughter in agonising pain.

The shuttle slowed down as a vast hangar bay opened and the atmospheric transport entered it to find itself in an entirely closed hangar, where decontamination procedures commenced. After near ten minutes of wait, the shuttle flew into a second hangar, this time one fully lightened and where two lines of Northern troops positioned themselves into a parade formation.

Apart from the regulars, the entire space was painted into a dull gray, with only a white emblem of the direwolf painted against the left wall.

 _Sometimes, I should give Lord Eddard some advice in decoration_ , thought the Lord of White Harbor. _Not sinking to the over-decoration of the Reach is good, but a little colour is not that bad!_

The one hundred plus Northerners all raised their weapons in salute when Wyman and the men and women walked down the shuttle's ramp. Noticing the men had all amused looks when they watched him, the most powerful bannersman of his sub-sector thought he should perhaps come out in a threatening black battle-armour these days to surprise the audience. The fugitive thought was banished seconds after it came, as at the other extremity of the honour guard Wyman's liege lord came. And to his right side came a hooded figure wearing a large forest-coloured robe.

 _Is it a Green Man? I thought the laws of the Iron Throne had petitioned for their banishment of all war affairs...my, my. Times are changing too fast for a big man like me._

Lord Eddard Stark had not changed much since the last general meeting, although perhaps the Lord of Winterfell was a bit calmer than in the last months. Then again the information transmitted by the diplomatic couriers had maybe played a part in this. Finishing his walk, Lord Wyman stopped and bent the knee in front of the eldest living Stark.

"Rise, Lord Wyman." The voice of Lord Eddard echoed in a thunderous manner in the shuttle landing area. "You have done well."

"Thank you my Lord." Affirmed the noble ruling over the most populated system of the Northern Sector, grimacing a bit as he rose, his wounds from the Trident deciding to remind themselves to him at the worst moment. A sign of his hand let two women come out of the ranks of his party. A second sign commanded the first to approach.

"Your daughter, my Lord. Joanna." Said Wyman, as the nurse gave the young girl to her father almost-paralysed by emotion.

After much reflexion during the travel, the Master of White Harbor had decided to forego in his presentation the usual 'Snow' or 'Sand' which would have come for the illegitimate union of a Northerner Lord and a Dornish Lady. First, because the babe with the curled Stark hairs and the Dayne eyes could only have been conceived at one place, namely Harrenhal. At this moment the second son of Lord Rickard had not been betrothed, and it was entirely possible his father would have granted his cadet the right to marry Lady Ashara if war had not erupted. Secondly, because the death of the aforementioned Lady was so suspicious and shrouded in mystery no good Northerner could in good conscience insult her only daughter. And third...third had been the rather vigorous propaganda campaign recently launched by the Minister of Information in the South. The one vilifying Lord Eddard for jumping in bed with every Lady of importance, a proof the bards and news said that the Bloody Wolf was thirsty of women to rape and kingdoms to plunder.

 _Like if their King and his lackeys are models of moderation on that regard._

"Joanna." Repeated the young Lord Paramount of the North, visibly struggling to stay dignified in all circumstances, a task easier said than done when you held one of your children in your arms. Wyman spoke from experience here. "My daughter..."

Nearly two minutes passed before Lord Eddard gave back Joanna to her nurse, a decision perhaps anticipated by the issue of the baby demanding her food. A second sign was made and the second woman advanced, revealing a younger babe with silver hairs and grey eyes.

"Your niece, my Lord. Baela."

This time, the expression was better controlled, but the pain in the eyes was even more present. Part of it, Wyman was sure, resided in the fact Lord Eddard contemplated the last inheritance of his beloved sister in the realm of the living. Another part could also lie in the fact that of the children Lady Lyanna had given birth, there was only one out of two who was back in Northern possessions today.

The Northern diplomats at the Maidenpool had really tried. Using every dirty trick in the book they had tried! Oh, yes they had tried to bring back Visenya Targaryen as obscure talks of conflict-ending clauses and hostages ransoms were negotiated. In pure loss.

Wyman had been part of the committee directing the efforts at distance - after Aerys had showed how little value his parole had, no Northern highborn was going to take Targaryen hospitality as face-value - and he had known how the other side had been adamant not to give them the custody of Lady Lyanna's eldest daughter. Which was kind of ridiculous! The Iron Throne had agreed to release Baela Targaryen after two days, and in a concerted effort Braavos had been granted the 'honour' to foster a child of the royal line. And everyone knew it was a polite manner not to pronounce the word 'hostage'.

It was utterly incomprehensible. But it had happened, and there was nothing any Northern Lord, no matter his rank, could do against it. Save reopening the hostilities, but that would create far more dangerous issues in the bargain. The scum-lickers of King's Landing had already delivered plenty of killing intent in the room when they had announced the two girls would carry the name Targaryen. Apparently, Lady Lyanna had agreed before the New Gods to marry the then-Crown Prince, thus making her his second legitimate wife. Apart from the legitimate religious issues -Princess Elia Martell had certainly been very well alive when this supposed marriage happened- the fact only two Kingsguards had been willing to write this lie was certainly telling.

 _It goes without saying that if Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne are in range of our weapons, they're dead men..._

"Westeros is again at peace. My daughter and my niece are back."

"Yes, my Lord."

The wood-coloured figure advanced one step to contemplate the two babes, and Wyman saw a wooden pendant around his neck, picturing the infamous carved figure of a weirwood struck by thunder.

 _And a Knight of Taranos, to boot. The Great Sept and the Starry Sept are going to scream...I don't think they've ever forgiven them the entrails-in-the-branches sacrifices..._

"We have much to discuss."

* * *

 _The Great Council of Maidenpool, holding the peace talks between the rebel forces of the North, the River Sector and the Vale on one side, and the united loyalist coalition of the Reach, the Western Sector, the River Sector and the Crown on the other, was perhaps the best example of modern times how not to conduct a global negotiation._

 _While Galactic Targaryen News was rapid to trumpet the final peace treaty as a great success, in reality it was anything but that. The Targaryen loyalist diplomats arrived with multiple agendas at the conference, a drawback they never managed to put an end on. Under orders from their new sovereign, the Crown representatives had to do their best to recover the worlds of the River Sector under enemy occupation and abandon the idea of ransoming the highborn prisoners of war._

 _The Lannister diplomats had rather different objectives: as far as they were concerned, the Northerners could keep the systems-with the exception of the Twins-, but they wanted their captured armies back...and unlike the Targaryen counterparts the Westerners were prompt to respond positively when the idea of hostages and taxes increases were discussed as punitive terms for the Arryns and the Starks._

 _The River loyalist aristocracy wanted their systems back in a single unified sector. Not having this outcome would result in the disintegration of their personal power. The Reach changed their posture depending on Lord Mace Tyrell and his main bannersmen's whims. Little recognition was given to the Florent, Tarly and minor knights having died at the Trident System._

 _The Council did not wait for the arrival of Braavosi law experts to become a maze of intrigue and disputes, symbolizing everything which had turned wrong with the Kingdom of Westeros. The raid on Seagard augmented the greed of the loyalist policy-makers; the Lorathi affair in the Narrow Void saw the Iron Throne forced to swallow their ambitions in a painful manner._

 _Ultimately, King Rhaegar Targaryen and his allies obtained what they wanted...in appearance and at a cost they were going to discover over the next two decades. Lord Emmon Frey, Ser Leslyn Haigh, Lord Ambrose Charlton and Lord Duncan Erenford were restored in their legitimate claims. It was too bad the existing fortifications protecting their worlds had been destroyed...and that the entire economy of their systems had been infiltrated by Northern agents._

 _The prisoners taken in two years of civil war were returned, but the price in gold dragons was terribly heavy, the Targaryens having murdered their most valuable prisoners and the rebels being in no mood for a discount. Furthermore, official 'shortages in transport capacity' of the rebellion forced the Crown to repatriate at their own expenses the tens of thousands prisoners of war of their own armies. This process would not be completed until mid-284AAC._

 _The ephemeral 'marriage' between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark was recognised, legitimizing their two daughters Baela and Visenya. To say the Stark emissaries were furious at the idea of recognising this barely-dissimulated rape was widely underestimating the truth, and it did not get better when the rebel diplomats realised they would have only the guardianship of one Princess at any time, not two. By the age of five Baela Targaryen was supposed to pass two-thirds of a year in the North and one third at King's Landing. In reverse, Visenya Targaryen would pass eight months in the capital system and four at Winterfell. Needless to say, one party chose never to respect its word..._

 _The Braavosi increased significantly their taxes for goods coming from Targaryen-loyalist systems. Embargoes in certain critical military technologies were put in place, and Princess Daenerys Targaryen was to be fostered at Braavos._

 _In definitive, Maidenpool represented an absolute failure of the Targaryen dynasty to recognise their debilitating internal issues and deal with them in an efficient fashion. By the end of 283AAC, the man sitting on the Iron Throne had successfully alienated the North, Dorne, the great Lords of the Vale, over half of the River Sector, major planets of the Storm Sector and his reputation was plummeting in the abyss where the Essossi were concerned._

 _The Storm Sector and the River Systems having already capitulated were not proposed the relatively generous terms of Maidenpool, and the economic consequences would pursue every Westerosi House long after their current lords' demise._

 _If the Greyjoy Rebellion hadn't happened, it was likely Westeros would not have survived ten years. As it was, the kingdom stayed in one piece, but the short-term future would show very little reasons to rejoice..._

From The Night is coming by Samwell Tarly, 340AAC.

* * *

 **Lord Rodrik Harlaw, 01.01.284AAC, Pyke System**

They had called him the Reader, like it was an insult and a motive of scorn. How little intelligence they had. By despising knowledge, they revelled in their colossal stupidity. Those after all who fail to learn from the past are condemned to repeat it over and over again, and in this area no one was more iron-headed than a reaver of the Iron Sector.

Lord Rodrik saw the crowd of warriors massing at the base of the Pyke citadel under a dark sky. There was no order in this mob. Some of the men had come in their civilian clothes, other in battle-armours Mark 15 while a minority wore the regular dark blue uniform of the Iron Sector navy. A Lannister or any other Noble House's formal ceremony would have been in ordered lines, neat columns. Not so much here.

In the shadows of the dark and ancient fortress, the Ironborn were an unruly mass, which was further emphasized by their screams and shouts. There was no city watch or any order service. After this afternoon, no doubt there would be plenty of looted stores and raided buildings.

 _See, Quellon. See how long your reforms lasted after your death._

Knowing what he knew now, Rodrik figured that his father allowing his sister to marry Quellon's son had been one of the biggest mistakes House Harlaw had ever made.

The screams mounted higher when the new Lord of Pyke came on a balcony overseeing the ecstatic crowd. The captains, officers and reavers of all kind celebrated the ascension of their new warlord with all the fury and joy in their dark hearts.

"BALON! BALON! BALON!"

"THE TIME OF THE OLD WAY HAS COME AGAIN!" Screamed Rodrik's brother-in-law in a shout momentarily covering the sounds of his audience. "THE ONLY PRICE AN IRONBORN WILL EVER PAY A GREENLANDER IS THE IRON PRICE!"

"BALON! BALON!"

"THE DRAGONS HAVE BECOME WEAK! WE WILL REARM AND THEN WE WILL TEACH THEM THE FEAR OF THE VOID GOD!"

"IN THE VOID GOD NAME!" Replied the frenzied mass of reavers and pirates.

"WHAT IS DEAD-" Started the eldest son of Quellon.

"MAY NEVER DIE, BUT RISES AGAIN HARDER AND STRONGER!" The tirade was so powerful that coupled with the heavy slamming of the boots on the ground, it sounded like a mini-earthquake.

 _No_ , though the Lord and Master of Harlaw. _If you are ejected in the void, you die. If someone cuts your head and desecrate your corpse, you die. But try to convince this band of morons of that..._

The recent death of Quellon was an unfortunate event in the great game.

 _The Game of Thrones. Best not to forget that._

With the obvious weakness shown in the Rebellion when four Great Houses rose against them, the Targaryens were going to be desperate to maintain some aspect of strength and unity. The Iron Throne was going to search for something to rally the banners. To prove one single realm was better than eight or nine disparate ones.

And Balon Greyjoy was going to give Westeros a very powerful reason indeed to be united.

 _May the Seven have mercy on us, because the Void God won't._


	5. I am Carnage

**Greyjoy Rebellion Arc**

 **Chapter 1**

 **I am Carnage**

" _The Ironborn are back_!" Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy, 289AAC.

" _And here we thought the Targaryens were the mad ones_." Lord Jason Mallister, 289AAC.

" _There have been times in history when the battle was won before the first shot was ever fired_." Lord Eddard Stark, 302AAC.

" _The data my agents compiled confirms Lord Balon Greyjoy is sinking the economy of the Iron Sector in a massive armament program. To date, over one hundred and five longships have been built in the Pyke yards and I fear this is only the visible part of this military building. All simulations indicate this spending can't last more than three years before a complete collapse of their finances. In my humble opinion, these numbers represent a serious threat to the Royal control of the Sunset Void. I suggest reinforcing the defences of the Western Sector and proceed to the deployment of the Royal Deep Space Fleet at the Arbor facilities_." Lord Varys Tivario's report to the Small Council on the Iron Sector's situation, 287AAC. The recommendations were widely denounced as 'alarmist' and 'baseless speculation' by the Hand of the King and a majority of the Small Council.

 _The first battle of the Greyjoy Rebellion had been lengthily prepared by the Ironborn High Command. The attack on Lannisport was no mere raid; it was to be the revelation to all Westeros that King Balon Greyjoy had abandoned his allegiance to the Iron Throne and was now his own master. The proclamation of a New Order where the Ironborn broke the chains imposed by the dragons and rose again to be destiny's chosen and the proud worshippers of the Void God._

 _The date of the attack had been carefully chosen. 16.10.289AAC, the very day of the Lion's Day, the centuries-old ceremony where the smallfolk, merchants and highborn of the Western Sector all celebrate the birthday of their liege lord. On this day, Lord Tywin Lannister would be forty-seven years old. Balon Greyjoy, confident in the experience of his captains and the element of surprise, intended to make it a very memorable date in history._

 _Enraptured by the festivities and busy acting at a service order to ensure none of the drunken crowd did something regrettable, the Lannister Deep Space Fleet was extremely vulnerable in orbit around the planet. About two-fifths of the warships in service were docked to the great orbital shipyards, military or civilian. More than half of the Lannister commanders were assisting to the ceremonies and parties taking place at Casterly Rock. Naturally, the Lord Reaver of Pyke decreed this was the perfect occasion to destroy the nearest force able to counter his independence bid._

 _Years later, the well-spread opinion among the Essossi strategists studying this cataclysmic battle was that the Head of House Greyjoy had made a mistake. Not by attacking Lannisport (and Fair Isle in the aftermath, a conquest which is sadly often neglected or forgotten in writings), but by violating nearly all the conventions of warfare of the period. The Iron King, as he liked to be nicknamed by his captains and his bannersmen, had many times expressed a contemptuous view towards the Targaryen dynasty and King Rhaegar in particular. According to the Lord of Pyke, the once-dragonriders were weak and pathetic, ripe for the picking. This arrogant belief in his own superiority and the 'iron price' were all the seeds required for a conflagration engulfing the Sunset Void._

 _Contrary to what the newly crowned King Balon speeches affirmed, the former rebels of the North, the River and the Vale Sectors were not going to follow him in this madness. Perhaps if they had been warned beforehand, with months in advance, the situation might have been different. It was a big 'maybe', the reputation of the Ironborn as pseudo-pirates was a tradition in itself. But not one of House Greyjoy's men had travelled to Winterfell, the Vale or Seagard to inform them of the onslaught coming. The first warning the Lords Paramounts of the North and the Vale had of the Greyjoy Rebellion was to be when their spies reported them the end of the Battle of Lannisport. Moreover, the 'legitimate reasons' explained by the King of the Iron Sector and his Lord Captain to justify their treachery were utterly ludicrous. House Stark had rebelled against the Iron Throne after one of their members was kidnapped and two were executed in a farce of justice. House Baratheon's previous lord had had his betrothed captured by another man. House Arryn was asked to violate sacred guest rights which were more laws into themselves than customs. House Greyjoy had absolutely nothing of this magnitude to complain. Thus while the first longships left the secret asteroid bases where they had been built, the Ironborn eager to tear their enemies apart and plunder all their content were in reality making sure their defeat was ineluctable._

 _With the possible exception of the Vale (which had always been too far for Ironborn reavers), an Ironborn resurgence was in no way good news for the Westerosi factions. Loyalists like House Tyrell and Lannister had too much to lose in trade and influence over the Sunset Void to let the Ironborn remain defiant. Former rebels like the River lords or the Northerners had even less reason to support Balon, past history having proven the rapacity and the sheer destruction of the reavers' raids on their own planets. As a result, there would be no general uprising against House Targaryen. The Greyjoy Rebellion would be just that, an insurrection of the Iron Sector against the rest of the Kingdom of Westeros. A martial population of roughly seven and half billion people was going against a largely undamaged realm of over three hundred billion and forty souls._

 _The actors were ready, the tragedy could start._

 _Who were the first to die?_

 _Many will want to acknowledge the crew of the Heavy Cruiser Cuirass, Junior Captain Lanvell commanding, as the first loss suffered by the Lannister forces in the Rebellion. But while the phenomenal explosion caused by a dozen of black-matter missiles striking it at 15:34KST was undoubtedly eye-catching, the one thousand and four hundred six deaths it caused were not the first casualties._

 _Four hours and twenty minutes before, the surveillance station L-15 has ceased all contact with the outside, having been boarded by three longships including the dreaded and infamous Silence. Eighteen men lost their life in a one-sided butchery led by the Crow's Eye._

 _It is 11:04KST. As millions of Westerners drink, sing, party and celebrate, the peace having reigned for six long years is coming to an end. The outer reaches of the Lannisport System are ablaze and fall to the Iron armada._

 _Surprise and a very thorough plan of attack went a long way in explaining how none of the twenty-nine starships destroyed managed to sound the alert before their destruction or capture. Six other relays and monitoring stations shared their fate. The longships started their attacks like the dreaded krakens harboured by House Greyjoy, unnoticed by the crippled defence system._

 _Until the Cuirass detects one anomaly on its sensors. But by then it is too late._

 _It is 15:34KST. The Carnage of Lannisport can begin._

From the Greyjoy Rebellion by Yzabel Tendao, 298AAC.

 **The Lone Lieutenant, 16.10.289AAC, Lannisport System**

"I assure you, Inspector. Everything is perfectly legal on my ship!"

Ayric could not help but roll his eyes at the shipmaster having just spoken these very words. Nothing was 'perfectly legal' in life. The Western law was so complicated only an army of lawyers had the ability to navigate subtleties and edicts having been reacted decades or centuries ago.

 _And if I was given a gold dragon each time someone told me nothing illegal is happening there, I would be a very wealthy man now._

"Of course, Captain Vurtal." The tone used was voluntarily dry, and the blue eyes of the man narrowed in suspicion. "I did not mean to imply you were involved in any illegal activities."

The posture of the _Flower of the Hills_ ' Captain immediately relaxed. Until Raff Preslan arrived with the rest of the enforcers and handed Ayric the ship's manifest with a negative nod. Not that it was much of a surprise for the customs party waiting in small groups on his right and left sides. The mummer's show had been planed yesterday when the high-ups ordered this little 'surprise inspection'.

"Does it look like a counterfeit manifest?" Ayric asked loudly in a sardonic manner, before throwing a fake bewildered look at the data chip in his right hand. The pleasant expression of Vurtal disappeared faster than it had come. "Yes, I believe it is."

Once again, the survivor of the Twins Campaign was able to marvel at the stupidity of some smugglers and outlaws trying to operate their old tub in the Western Sector. The storage device in his hand was looking like someone has drooled on it. The 'signatures' of the Merchant Guild's masters would not have fooled a credulous five-year old. Most of the legal codes needed for an important document like this one were outright missing or in the wrong order. Plus the cryptographic chip at the bottom of the manifest was looking like it had been hacked from another device beforehand...and this hypothesis may have some basis in truth.

"This must be an error Inspector! I am a law-abiding merchant of Lannisport! I am respectful of Lord Tywin Lannister's authority!"

This proclamation was pronounced in an outraged manner, and one of the crew's members behind the Captain was listening to him with the passion most non-noble listen a septon preach. It was quite impressive, the man could have made a real career in mummery and theatrical performances.

 _A far better fate than being hanged by the Lannisport executioners..._

"As do we all." Grumbled a man behind the former Lieutenant, in a disgruntled voice. Similar groans came from the others veterans in half-pay. More than ever the master of the _Flower of the Hills_ was regarded with deep distrust. While only a fool would disrespect the name of Lord Tywin Lannister, there was rarely love involved when the Lord Paramount's name was pronounced in a conversation.

An unfortunate consequence of half of the enforcers hearing these words having been reduced to half-pay status after the end of the Usurper's War. It was only due to the connections of certain individuals that they had found their current job.

"And yet your manifest has severe discrepancies to say the least." Said Preslan in an amused tone, almost making the civilian merchant-smuggler jump on his feet.

"This doesn't prove anything!" If the gaze of Vurtal towards the former Sergeant could have molten metal by sheer force of will, Raff Preslan would have dropped dead in less than five seconds. Then the slightly overweight Westerner returned his attention to Ayric. "Inspector, it doesn't prove anything!"

This statement would definitely have not been appreciated in a court of law. In fact, a good lawyer would have placed a devastative counter-argument. There was no lawyer in the vicinity of this orbital trade shipyard though. But there were plenty of customs patrols. Captain Vurtal was escaping the sharks, but the alternative for him wasn't that bright.

"Of course." Ayric agreed. "But I'm going to insist on a complete inspection to verify everything is fine with the cargo."

The face of Captain Vurtal, already being quite wet due to a certain amount of transpiration, went several shades paler. If one had to take a bet, this wasn't the answer he had wanted to hear.

"I don't think..."

"This was not a suggestion." Informed him the former officer of the Lannister army now employed as a custom officer. "My men are going to board your ship and see how much the goods in your hull differ from the manifest."

Vurtal was now clearly panicking, as he turned his head and made several signs of his hand to the sellswords lining near the gateway leading to the _Flower of the Hills_. The gestures were not answered, except perhaps by the roguish-like dark-haired leader, who rolled his shoulders in denegation. A silent manner to signify your employer the twin messages of 'bad luck boss' and 'you're on your own' if there ever was one.

 _Idiot_.

By this gesture, all the possible outlaw –the probability of him being a criminal was skyrocketing each second – had managed to do was confirming the suspicions of the officials in front of him.

Sellswords were by their very nature men having left the standard military organisations – some never went that road in the first place – whose only goal was to earn a lot of money. Honour and suicidal tendencies were values virtually non-existent in their ranks. And firing on Lannisport officials was belonging in the latter category.

The men Vurtal had hired for his protection could probably take Ayric and his custom patrol. The Lannisport men were numbering fifty-one, the sellswords had a force of two scores and they were all wearing a battle-armour called the Mark 10, slightly superior to the Mark 2 in every performance aspects. Ayric Sarring, Raff Preslan and the rest were all in ceremonial uniform, Lion's Day oblige. The sellswords could take them, yes. And then the fast-reaction forces of the army present on the station _Golden Triangle_ would come and destroy the sellswords. Casterly Rock and several high lords were known to hire men outside the regular armed forces ranks, but it did not give the mercenaries the licence to murder at will. In times of peace, the restrictions were perhaps even stricter than in the army or in the navy.

"Shall we?" The suspected smuggler nodded in a fashion reminiscent of a beaten dog, and started the short walk to his ship with a pace that suggested he would like to be somewhere else. The 'somewhere else' was of course thousands of light-years away from nosy Lannisport custom patrols.

Three long corridors and a gigantic magnetic lift later, the opinion the Inspector had of the _Flower of the Hills_ had fallen further. It was not like the hull of one million and a half tons was completely wrong...the lights were on, the doors answered at a moment's notice when the activation code were given and the norms imposed by Westerosi law were followed. Sort of. But in the air reigned an unpleasant odour that was not perfume, like if an animal had relieved itself in every compartment of the ship. There were sections of the walls, ceilings and the floors which really needed some renovation and a good dose of fresh paint. Grey was not a bad colour, but when it started taking a greenish variant, this was a sign the starship had not been well-maintained.

Once arrived into the lower part of the hull containing the cargo, this sad impression was confirmed. None of the containers were ranged in a logical and orderly manner. Only the central alley was left to move, the rest was cluttered up by dozens of containers. Containers which weren't following the norms established for the Western Sector or any galactic nation of importance. They came in diverse shapes, colours, markings and materials, not the standard red-gold rectangular one. How exactly customs officials were supposed to find their way into this behemoth-sized labyrinth had an obvious answer...they weren't going to.

"Okay let's stop here." Ayric ordered once they were about a third of the way into the great storage zone. On a whim, he pointed his finger towards a large blue container which was easy of access. "Let's open this one."

It was clear given the configuration of the storage fifty-one men weren't going to pass into review the cargo in one day. But all of Ayric's instincts screamed the captain was a smuggler, and if they found one or two illegal things, it would be easy to call higher authorities and sequester the entire starship. Oh, and send the uncooperative crew to prison too. Since they had come aboard, none of the ten men under Captain Vurtal had shown the slightest desire to help them. An eye for an eye, the Inspector would not help them in return. His family had shown him how duty was rewarded in life: refusing to acknowledge him after the Twins fiasco, everyone ignoring him, and forcing him at last to apply for this job. This was an unfair galaxy; Ayric did not see why there should be favours for criminals and law-breakers.

It was everything but simple to open the container. By law and simple good-sense, containers used by the merchant marine and everyone else were supposed to have uncomplicated and well-maintained magnetic locks, or whatever technological equivalent was in use on their home planet. A proverb known in every port of the galaxy was 'time is money'; the ship-owners and their clients acted in consequence. Feeling his patience run out, Ayric gave the data manifest to Preslan and moved to help his five subordinates battling with the recalcitrant container. It did not go well, and soon the party was forced to resort to one of the oldest methods known to mankind: brute force with a large number of heavy masses.

"What's supposed to be in it by the way?" The former Lieutenant asked his co-survivor of Bridge's Edge.

"Tractor spare parts destined for... a planet named White Boar?" By all evidence the writing of the manifest was difficult for everyone to read. "Assuming the markings on the container are correct, boss."

"White Harbor?" There was no Westerosi system called White Boar. Maybe there were a city or two called like that, it was a big galaxy, but there were no planets worth remembering which had such a singular designation.

"That's it. White Harbor." Told Preslan in a less hesitating voice.

Of course, this confirmation opened more questions. Lannisport was hardly in the right direction if you wanted to transport goods to the Northern Sector. The Sunset Void allowed merchants hulls equipped with void generators to travel to the North, but to systems like Barrowton. White Harbor was best accessed by the Narrow Void, except if you were in the favour of the Lord of Winterfell and allowed to use the legendary secret star-roads of the Neck. Somehow, Ayric did not believe Vurtal was in such favour with the Noble House ruling Winterfell.

Finally after endless minutes of hammering, the locks finally succumbed to the enthusiasm of the Lannisport men, letting the container open in a deep odour remembering Ayric some tanneries in the impoverished districts.

"Well, well, well...this was not what I imagined tractor spare parts to be like."

In the container was a large pile of pelts. Of the tractor spare parts, there was no trace.

"Is it what I think it is?" Asked Kalen, one of the youngest members in Ayric's custom patrol.

"If you think these are white lion pelts..." Began Raff Preslan with a chuckle.

"There must be a little fortune in there. White lions of the Banefort are a protected species..." Whispered an enforcer somewhere behind the container.

Ayric diverted his attention back to the Captain, who was trying very hard to appear innocent, honest and tiny at the same time. It was not a success.

"Nothing illegal, eh?"

Vurtal tried to run to the nearest cargo hatch... but the guards under Ayric were not at their first smuggler arrest. The Captain had not made three metres he was grasped around the waist by two guards and manacled without gentleness.

One of the crewmembers tried to mount a protest.

"Ser is not going to be happy!"

"Oh, so there is a Ser involved in the affair?" The enforcer who put him the manacles did not gloat, but he wasn't far from this point. "No he won't be happy when we will arrest him..."

The rest of the crew, realising the day was lost, did not offer any vocal or physical resistance. It was almost disappointing how they resigned themselves to their fate.

"I suppose we can add to his list of misdeeds 'attempt to escape the law'." Remarked Preslan with dark humour.

"Must I add the non-conformity of the locks too, Inspector?" Half-joked Kalen, giving an excellent performance of a dutiful bureaucrat making an endless list of accusations.

"Yes, excellent idea." Replied his superior with the same irony.

For the long term, it probably didn't matter. Considering the massive amount of criminal activity done by Vurtal, the man was going to be hanged...if he was lucky. If he was not, there always was perpetual forced labour in the mines. One way or another, Vurtal was not going to be a free man for much longer. His crew would probably share his fate, depending on their patron's influence and their willingness to babble in front of the judge.

"Do we verify all the containers, Inspector?" Demanded Enforcer Nicing, a brown-haired eighteen name day youngster with a light beard and plenty of arrogance in his jaw. The undertone employed strongly suggested the answer had better be 'no'.

"Afraid so. The manifest is a rag."

"But this is going to take us the rest of the day!" Moaned the young man, unaware – or not caring – of the spectacle he was giving to the veterans of the inspection patrol. "I wanted to go to the festivities at the Golden Square!"

"If you wanted to, you should have taken a free day." Retorted Ayric Sarring without giving a pinch of compassion. By the Gods Old and New, Nicing had better hope conscription would never come for him. The discipline in the Lannister armies would probably see him in front of a court-martial in less than a week. "You did not ask for a free day. Bad luck; you will see the fireworks next year."

His blue-eyed interlocutor visage showed in the aftermath of this declaration an expression which could be summarised as 'sulking'. Deciding there was nothing else to say on that front, the Inspector turned to Preslan.

"Arrest the rest of the crew." His second-in-command nodded, before opening his mouth for a confirmation.

"The sellswords too?"

"No." Ayric shook his head. "Vurtal certainly didn't inform them of anything of note and they refused to die for him. Inform them that their contract is over. Next we-"

The world suddenly spiralled out of control. One instant the Lannisport custom party was discussing the unpleasant fate of Vurtal and his accomplices, the next they were on the ground or trying to grasp a container. Ayric latched on a nearby lock of a green container, his men imitating him to diverse degrees with anything providing a bit of stability.

Fortunately, none of the containers had ruptured their magnetic attachments. Ayric Sarring thanked all the Seven-Who-Are-One they had held. In the case they had not, he and his men wouldn't have live long enough to deplore it. Against hundred tons-heavy containers, a human lost every time.

"What in the Seven Hells was that?" Screamed an enforcer who had met the ground in an unpleasant manner and was now holding his bleeding nose.

"A bomb?" Tried one of the oldest men present.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Retorted another, pushing away a while lion pelt who had fallen on his lap before standing up. "We're on a merchant ship! Why would a bomb be here?"

"It's to him you have to ask that!" Declared Sub-inspector Malster, pointing an accusing finger towards Vurtal. The smuggler was in a bad shape, spitting blood and his left leg was showing an unnatural angle.

It was this moment the radio every official had to their belts chose to bark the same automatic announcement.

"Protocol Last Thunder activated."

Raff and Ayric looked at each other, dismayed. Last Thunder was a military code, only to be used in one circumstance and one circumstance only. Imminent invasion.

"Let's get out of there." It was not his job to deal with this disaster-in-the-making. Not with a group including its fair share of recruits knowing barely how to point their laser side-arms in the right direction.

But it was too late.

They came from every direction. The 'they' of course were quite recognisable. Every Westerner having the smallest knowledge of military history knew who the midnight-blue battle-armours belonged to. The skull-shaped helmets with the tentacles were a major clue, their creators wishing to give the maximum of fright to their enemies. The black fumes surrounding them gave them a demonic look. The battle-cry was just the last confirmation every man aboard the _Flower of the Hills_ needed.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

 _Ironborn. Damn all these squid-pirates to the Seven Hells_.

Ayric drew the vibro-blade he had grabbed so many years ago on Bridge's Edge. Where many officers had a purely ceremonial blade, the Lieutenant in half-pay had kept the Bolton durasteel. Now it may save his life one more time.

"For Lannisport. Show no fear!"

Baying for blood and holding their laspistols or short swords, the Lannisport enforcers rushed to engage the enemy. Screaming their adoration for the Void God, the Ironborn did the exact same thing. Which was pretty stupid of them since the Lannisport inspection patrol had nothing to hurt them at long distance. There was no time to marvel at this invulnerability's disdain though.

They were in the melee and only killing mattered. Ayric's fist strike exploded the joint of his first opponent's right leg. The massive Ironborn slipped, falling on his backside, but there was no sound of pain, just a grunt. It was enough opportunity though for Ayric to grab his big rifle –which by the black corona of smoke it emitted was certainly not a laser one – and to slam it into the skull-faced helmet. The shock was sufficient to stun for a few seconds the warrior, and the Bolton vibro-sword tore his throat apart in a shower of gore.

There was no time to savour this victory. From the edge of his vision there was something moving, forcing him to plunge. One second later, a gigantic vibro-axe collided with the green container he had been next to.

"We are the scythes." Hissed the metallic breather of the dark blue battle-armour. "We are your death, greenlanders!"

Assuredly these Ironborn were talkative. Quite the opposite of the Northerners in the forests of Bridge's Edge. Ayric parried in haste when for the second-time the vibro-axe returned to scalp him. Slightly bending his body, the former Westerner Lieutenant threw a lightning attack on his enemy's legs, exploding the vulnerable joints of the right leg. This time, the Ironborn fell screaming, forgetting his weapon and grabbing his wounded member...first and last mistake as the Northern vibro-blade plunged in the eye visor of the helmet and went out of the other side.

Far from diminishing in intensity after that, the fighting redoubled in violence. The strange generators of the Ironborn's armours created more dark fumes, but for an experienced soldier it was not hard to see the reavers were few in numbers.

 _They must have expected to kill all of us in a matter of seconds._

The Ironborn had been too cocky. Ayric disarmed a new enemy of his rifle before shredding the joints of his arms. Preslan arrived from behind and finished the job with a metal spike. The former Sergeant had always been good at finding things, this improvised bayonet proved it. Red and god uniforms were lying dead near the containers but they weren't alone. Dark blue battle-armours had joined them in death's embrace. There was now only a couple of Ironborn standing. The surviving Lannisport inspector and enforcers started to encircle them carefully...just as a storm of laser came out of the main hatch and killed the reavers in two seconds, watch in hand.

Seeing grey battle-armours arrive on the battle scene, Ayric and for that matter all the living men present breathed in relief. The sellswords they had left outside had arrived to the rescue.

"We thought you could use some help." The chief of the mercenaries said with a satisfied voice. "Although you were doing a good job by yourselves I see." He amended when he saw the number of Ironborn sprawled lifelessly on the cold floor.

Ayric lowered his vibro-sword but did not sheath it. These Ironborn were well and truly dead, but there may be others nearing on their position. Contemplating the assemblage of containers which had become in a minute a slaughterhouse, Ayric saw over a dozen of his own men lying forever in their blood. Immobile, the men harbouring the gold lion on the red field were almost looking in peace. Almost. Malster, Nicing, Kalen...as many men Ayric Sarring had been speaking with all day, discussing future projects and planning to have a drink or two when the service was over. Now they were all dead.

 _Why? Why begin another war? The previous one was bad enough..._

It was then he realised he didn't even know the name of the sellsword commander.

"Your arrival was more than welcome...Commander?"

"Bronn. Bronn Wood-brother." Despite the gravity of the situation, a shadow of the roguish look the man had shown when Vurtal marched to his 'inspection' was definitely there.

"Thank you Commander Bronn." It was the first time the Westerner thanked a sellsword sincerely, but it was deserved. With no recompense in sight, Bronn's men could have packed their bags and escaped. Nothing had forced them to stay.

"Hey, we couldn't let you kill all these Ironborns!" Bronn's smile got wider, though his eyes remained serious and deadly. "Besides," the smile progressively died out, "the station's full of the reavers. And they shoot everyone carrying a weapon."

Well. That explains a bit their willingness to help.

There were all in a very difficult quagmire. If the stations swarmed with Ironborn, surely there were dozens of longships all around, ready to disgorge more troops and finish them. Plus if they resisted too much, the pirates could very well decide to blow them up. They had to retake the station and the orbital weapons it commanded. It was their only option. You did not surrender to Ironborn. Not if you had two brain cells in your skull.

"Okay, here's what I have in mind-"

"Sailors, soldiers and civilians of Lannisport, I am Euron 'the Crow's Eye' Greyjoy. I believe you have heard of me?"

The joyous voice coming out of every Westerner and sellswords interrupted the private conversations, discussions and eulogies. The men in the cargo zone had not been using the same frequency. And yet the enemy had effortlessly used them.

The worst was to come. A terrible agony cry sounded in the radios and the sound devices. Many Lannisport enforcers put their hands on their ears or tried to find other frequencies, in vain.

"The Crow's Eye..."

"Make it stop! Make it stop!"

After endless seconds the screams ended. The voice of the reaver came back, mocking and disdainful.

"I control everything! Every station in orbit around Lannisport has fallen to my forces!"

The Ironborn cackled in a truly evil laugh. The one the villains in the bard tales and propaganda stories always used.

"Yes, I control everything. Your air. Your water. Your armouries. The lives of your leaders."

Each short sentence was pronounced with malice and a dark joy.

 _By_ _the Seven what kind of monster this Greyjoy is?_

New screams of agony resonated for a few seconds. Each new sentence was punctuated with them.

"You can't do anything to stop me."

"Soldiers of Lannisport you are all going to die."

"I will rape your women."

"I will sell your children into slavery."

Ayric saw on the right one of his men on his knees, crying.

"Before the end, you will crawl to my feet and beg me to spare you! Here comes the Crow's Eye! MWAHAHAHAHA!"

After that the screams started anew and didn't stop, forcing Ayric and the rest of the survivors to cut their communications. Which was certainly part of the enemy's plan. No means to contact the other survivors. No heavy weapons. No battle-armours for the majority. Outnumbered and no intelligence on the enemy formations.

"What do we do?" Asked Bronn. The sellsword was irradiating cold fury.

"We retake the station. At all costs." Ayric looked at his men assembled before him. Five or six were sobbing, but their older companions forced them to stand up. The soldiers having Lightning Lion were hard-faced, cold as granite. Euron Greyjoy had threatened everything they held dear. Like the sellswords they would fight. Back to the wall, there was nothing else to do. "We haven't the choice. The Ironborn wants to kill us? Let them show the soldiers of Lannisport don't die so easily!"

About thirty weapons were raised in the air, last defiance against the tide of Ironborn engulfing the Lannisport system.

It was this moment the old-fashioned megaphone device of the _Flower of the Hills_ chose to resonate again. A new death rattle sounded, followed by a demonic growl worthy of the Seven Hells.

"I. AM. CARNAGE!"

"What was that again?" Preslan's question was rhetoric as he didn't wait for an answer to continue. "The Crow's Eye must be pretty desperate to-"

"It's not him." The voice was not the dark laugh of the mad Ironborn. No, this was the roar of a crazy beast.

"I AM CARNAGE! I AM CARNAGE! I AM CARNAGE!"

* * *

 _By the end of the Usurper's War, the fortune of House Greyjoy appeared to be on the rise. Despite the death of Lord Quellon in the Battle of Seagard, the ruling House of the Iron Sector had a young and vigorous new Lord, with plenty of siblings and children. Thanks to the medical reforms Lord Quellon had pushed during the last part of his governance, none died in the cradle or their young years. By the time Balon Greyjoy proclaimed himself 'Iron King', all but two of the Greyjoy blood were adults and in age to fight. The majority of House Greyjoy military forces were intact. The economy was thriving, receiving plenty of convoy and ship construction contracts._

 _Ultimately, this would prove a curse rather than a blessing._

 _Of the eleven persons bearing the Greyjoy name, five died in the fires of war unleashed by the Greyjoy Rebellion. It was already bad enough for the House's future, but when one considers four of the six survivors did not sire any heirs afterwards..._

From _The Fall of the Iron Sector_ , published in 298AAC by Maester Yandel.

 **Robin Greyjoy, 16.10.289AAC, Lannisport System**

"Before the end, you will crawl to my feet and beg me to spare you! Here comes the Crow's Eye! MWAHAHAHAHA!"

"Cut that." Ordered Robin Greyjoy, grimacing and trying his best no to vomit at the voice of his eldest brother.

The Sergeant of House Greyjoy who had let the communications open with the _Silence_ ended it with a certain relief on his face. Yes, the Ironborn loved to taunt the greenlanders and give them what they cowardice deserved. But there were limits to the Iron Price and the Old Way, limits Euron was happy to ignore every time. The screams of the Westerners Euron was torturing at the moment largely entered this 'out-of-bounds' category. Victarion had tried to protest a couple of days ago when the first attacks were launched into the Sunset Void, but the King had rebuffed the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. The reason given was that the greenlanders' only right was to beg for death or wait to be picked up for thraldom. When this conversation ended, Robin had not intervened. Now, he was regretting it.

Euron had always been mad. Robin was sure that had not their lord father given his siblings Urrigon and Aeron – not to mention himself - bodyguards before they were able to use a weapon, none of them would have reached their actual age. The Crow's Eye had tried to molest and humiliate them quite often in the presence of said protectors.

"What is our next objective, Captain?"

Robin chased these dark thoughts. Euron was insane, and there was nothing he could do about it. Well, it was not true. Robin could challenge Euron for the command of the 'Murder Squadron'. The little problem was the Crow's Eye would disarm him in ten seconds and then torture him for the rest of his days. And Balon, no King Balon now, would do nothing to stop him. As long as the Iron Price was paid, their eldest brother was ready to ignore a lot of events.

"This ship." The youngest sibling of King Balon pointed towards a middle-sized merchant hull on the other side of the bay's supraglass. The starship in question was poorly decorated, but apparently none of the other reavers had put a claim on it...yet. But with hundreds of Ironborn roaming all over this station, it was not going to last. And they had a limited amount of time to reave to their hearts' content before the signal to retreat came. "One more prize for us, reavers!" Two dozen men cheered and commenced running in the direction of the soon-to-be ex-Westerner merchant.

This was a good day for the crew of the _Dancer_ , Robin's personal command. They had already captured two merchants unaware before the real attacked roll on. One scout cruiser and one more merchant at anchor had been added to their list of prizes in less than fifty minutes.

Yes, this was a very good day. And it promised to get even better. Each corridor revealed more Westerners to be taken prisoners, more precious goods to be taken back to Pyke. The goods would decorate their quarters aboard their warships. The men would trim in the mines, the heavily-polluted industries of Pyke and the other shipbuilding centres of the Iron Sector. The women would serve as bed-warmers, and as a Greyjoy Robin would have first-choice when came the time to divide the pretty spoils of war.

"There is a bigger one here." Protested a reaver with black hair and the symbol of House Humble on his chest, momentarily interrupting these pleasant thoughts.

One year ago when his royal brother had given him the _Dancer_ , Robin would had this man whip for insubordination on his Piper cousins' advice. But this was the advice of greenlanders, who had lapdogs and cowards to bend the knee to them and scrap their boots. True men - that was to say Ironborn men - earned the respect of their troops by reaving, pillaging and listening sound advice. If the arguments were idiotic, you could always bash a few skulls to teach the imbecile not to interrupt you the next time.

"Then this one will be next!" The young Greyjoy announced to his warriors, eliciting another wave of cheers. The Ironborn cohort advanced in a disorganised fashion through a very crowded hall. Greenlanders were tied and bound by laughing Ironborn, banners of lions and dragons were burnt or trampled on the ground. The whole spectacle smelled victory and triumph. At last, the Iron fleet was taking their revenge for the decades of humiliation the Lannisters had inflicted them with. What could their vaunted gold do when the iron of pure strength slammed in their necks?

They were almost at the passage linking the merchant ship and the station when an explosion of hate resonated in the station megaphones.

"I. AM. CARNAGE!"

Robin was so surprised he missed a step on the mechanic escalator they were using and only avoided a fall by grabbing the handrail with his dark blue armoured fist. Loud swearing and a noise sufficient to wake up the dead informed him not everyone had had this reflex.

"By the Void God what was that?" Shouted one of the three most unfortunate reavers, whose lack of equilibrium had hurtled him down the escalator. "It sounded like the voice of a beast..."

All around, the crew of the Dancer and the reavers accompanying them drew their black-matter rifles, generating dark clouds of smoke and preparing for battle. So far they had been little resistance from the pathetic greenlanders, but now it looked there was going to be some action. The warriors who had been thrown in disarray stood on their armoured feet, helmets were locked on. The warriors of iron were going to battle.

"I AM CARNAGE! I AM CARNAGE! I AM CARNAGE!"

The screams came back. More powerful. A roar of fury nothing seemed able to stop. A guttural noise defying, no, challenging the Ironborn to come and meet their ends.

"Euron if this is one of your jokes..." One of the rare veterans Robin had managed to recruit was clearly not impressed by this awful cacophony and lighted on again his communication device. There was no time to give detailed expressions however.

"Movement! Movement in compartment two-five-four!" One of the _Dancer_ 's lieutenants exclaimed. Over forty dark battle rifles and an impressive number of close-combat weapons were drawn in the direction of a corridor on the right leading to the customs' rest room. A purple unicorn banner over the gate was proclaiming the virtues of alpinism in the Hornvale System.

"KILL! MAIM! SLAUGHTER!"

A body was hurled from the corridor. With a squelching sound, the human slammed on the opposite wall before collapsing in a silence of death on the ground. The macabre red trace just created left no hope that the Ironborn – and it was an Ironborn, his mangled battle-armour was harbouring a kraken for symbol – was still alive.

The reaction from the officers and the sergeants was done in a cauldron of violence, as Codd armsmen rushed out of the passage in visible terror.

"Fire! Fire at will!" Ordered an Ironborn officer in the crowd. A careful investigation could have revealed who gave the fatal order, but this was an after-though for Robin Greyjoy and the sixty Ironborn reavers shooting their ammunition in the direction of the monstrous screams.

Rays of black light came into existence, pulverising half of the corridor and killing indiscriminately half of the men taking the silver codfish for emblem. The situation was a bit animated after that, with every soldier shouting for orders or advices. The communication channels went into static as hundreds of voice used them without prior invitation.

"It comes! It comes! Though all men despises us..."

"Recharge and fire! Recharge fire!"

"Did we get it? I want a scout or two-"

"Prepare to bring heavier weapons-"

"Run! RUN!"

Robin half-laughed at what the last Codd man had just said in panic. Descendants of thralls one day, thralls courage forever it seemed. Ironborn did not retreat at the first fancy fight in the day. They were a sterner stuff than the greenlanders! They were Ironborn and the galaxy was them to plunder!

 _And Balon would kill me with his bare hands if I went back to him running like a coward_ , admitted a little voice in the back of his head.

"Ironborn do not run! We-"

Something marched out of the corridor. Something big. Breathing faster, Robin watched from the sensors of his polished dark blue armour as the shadows formed by black matter dissipated to reveal the face of their enemy.

He was huge. In fact for a moment Robin refused to think this was a man facing them. A battle-armour, no matter its degree of sophistication and the name of the company building it, had limits. The bigger and bulkier you made a battle-armour, the hardest it was going to be to fight and move in such a contraption. The thing in front of them was twice larger than his brother Victarion in his war equipment...and everyone knew the Lord Captain was the strongest man of Pyke.

It was a nightmare made flesh. Towering over them like a mountain regards ants, the originally black-grey battle-armour was dripping rivers of blood. Its armoured fists had taken a crimson colour. The emblem above where mortals had their hearts was almost defaced such had been the violence it had been subjected. Anyway, Robin did not recognise the banner. He had never really studied the heraldry of the Western Noble Houses, and a few dogs on a pale field did not figure in the worthy opponents list.

From the helmet to the legs, every part of this heavy battle-armour was scarred, showing scores of slashes and hits made by vibro-weapons. And yet there was no outwards sign they had manage to pierce the outer shell of the carapace.

"OPEN FIRE!"

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIES! ARRRGGH!"

The 'ARRRGGH' part was shouted by a _Dancer_ 's Sergeant when the towering warrior grabbed him by the neck and used him as an improvised shield to deflect the first shots of the reavers. After that the brute went from total immobility to a stunning speed. In two seconds, he was in contact with the first line of the Ironborn.

The Westerner colossus did not show any melee weapons in his hands or any laser armament. But as Robin watched him helplessly tear one of his men apart and beat another with the first soldier's arm, there was no need for a sword or an axe. This monster was going to destroy them with nothing but his bare hands.

"COME TO DIE!" Roared the apocalypse's apparition. One armoured fist went though the helmet and the skull of a Codd armsman. With the other, the monster seized a leg of the closest Ironborn and used it as an improvised mass to shatter the Ironborn lines. "COME TO DIE!"

The reavers of all the boarding section emptied their rifles firepower into the target. It did nothing. The battle-armour had to be of a resistance similar to the fabled Terminator ones granted to Lord Paramounts and their great bannersmen.

This explanation did nothing to solve the problem Robin and his men faced. The monster, and it was a monster wasn't it? No human could take that many hits and live. It wasn't simply possible. Yes, the monster was crushing skulls and cutting the members of his crew into ribbons. The youngest Greyjoy saw Dagon, one of his best reavers, be thrown into a holographic advertisement panel. The contact between the electricity and black matter electrocuted him with extreme prejudice and a roasted odour floated into the corridor.

They poured shots into their targets as fast as they could and yet the monster...the beast just kept coming! A warning sign informing this zone was non-smokers only was used as an improvised lance. Three Ironborn were impaled on it before the gargantuan warrior broke it.

Robin Greyjoy felt his chest hurt of his trampled pride when the first members of his crew started to desert. The young warrior wanted to curse them to the abyss and beyond, but there was simply no time. Step by step, they were pushed back from the starship access and into the main hallway. Their enemy shouted and screamed, more Ironborn died and the morale of the troops broke. Here and there the most experienced reavers withdrew in an organised manner...until there were back in a wider area at least.

When the space grew larger, the monster-made-flesh accelerated and ravaged their ranks. That fresh reinforcements arrived from all over the station was doing nothing but provide the beast more victims. The black rays of light were not scratching the massive battle-armour. Several desperate men tried to explode their own grenades but the Westerner moved again with demonic reflexes and expedited them away, weakening the integrity of the section.

A large Goodbrother champion with a terrible warhammer tried to challenge this herald of terror and was disarmed, beaten back and used as protection against the weapons of his own men.

This was enough for Robin. He didn't know where in the name of the cursed Storm God the Lannisters had found this thing, but there was no way he was going to wait here for his death. He was a Greyjoy, a brother to the King himself! It was not his destiny to die here fighting an attack dog of the bloody Lions! Signalling his personal guard and the officers who were not too far engaged in the fighting, the _Dancer_ 's Captain raced out to the next station's sector. The few instants it took to reach the nearest hatch felt like an eternity at the gates of the Void God's halls. Dozens of Ironborn ran, the screams of the agonising echoing in their backs.

"Close the anti-blast doors! Close these bloody doors and open the compartment -"

Robin had not the time to finish 'into the void' but the Codd commander next to him with an angry expression what he was trying to stay.

"You can't be serious! Half of our men are out there and many have no battle-armours!"

Robin watched around him and his mind was suddenly clear enough to acknowledge this assessment. Instead of the hundreds they had launched the attack, they were reduced to two or three scores. The giant had eliminated a good part of the assault force and the rest were left behind...dying or dead. But there was not a choice, Robin tried to convince himself. If they didn't close that door, then they were all dead. The choice was not to save everyone. It was to save at least a few from this debacle.

"We can't save them anyway! Do it!"

His second Urgald executed the fatal combination and pushed the red handle, closing the passage and preparing the no-return divide. Just in time too. The screams had not stopped and the noises of fighting had come nearer. The monster had torn apart the forces mustered in the hallway with considerable ease. An Ironborn who was hammering his fists against the explosion door left a big red trace when the titanic attacker smashed him against it. A few hits echoed against the door but they ceased rapidly.

Throwing one glance at a supraglass bay situated not far from their salvation meeting, the reason for this calm was evident: in their haste to escape their tormentor, the Ironborn had completely destroyed this part of the merchant station. Now big parts of the hallways and corridors caught in the middle of the carnage were drifting away, becoming one with the void. Robin felt himself sigh in melancholia. This was a good death for an Ironborn, but he had not thought that many of his crew would be unfortunate to die in their first battle. Of the last access to the anti-explosion hatches, there was nothing left. Opening it to the void had disintegrated it. Quite hopefully, it had slain the murderous colossus.

"The Beast is dead." The Codd officer affirmed with relief. "Praise the Void God."

"A million prayers for the Void God." Replied Robin, in the privacy of his head he was as relieved as this up-jumped thrall descendant.

"What was this monster?" Asked a Greyjoy armsmen, examining his ruined battle-rifle. "Nothing we had could stop it!"

No one answered for a few moments, watching the rare spectacle of an orbital installation destroy itself corridors by corridors. Debris and rubble were already burning into the upper atmosphere, providing a sensational firework show.

The shock, when it came, was thus completely unanticipated. This time, only two Ironborn lost their equilibrium and had a hard meeting with the floor. The rest were now looking towards the locked hatch with undisguised horror. Red-coloured sparks were seen in the other side, where by all the laws of nature and the Void God there should be nothing. Nothing but the cold eternal embrace of the night.

Except this wasn't the case. And Robin had made enough trips in the super-sized forges-complexes of Pyke to know this was the sign of a heavy plasma machine ready to unleash hell.

In a shrieking scream, the hatch convulsed. It was of course completely impossible for a single man, out in the void, to grab a plasma improvised torch and hammer his way back into the station. Magnetic boots or not, there were little things called shockwaves and the resistance one had to put would be literally inhuman. Yet their enemy had shown near-immortal resistance.

 _Is it a man or a demon of the Storm God?_

Robin thought about running again. Repeat the manoeuvre just done as many times as it humanly could be done. Sunder the station if need must, but kill that thing before it caused more...carnage. But just as the plan was examined and found wanting in his head, the entire corridor commenced an automatic lock-down. There was no escape...forcing their way was going to take too much time. Given that no reaver had pushed a single button, it did not take a genius to know who had certainly ordered it.

 _Damn you Euron. I swear that if I survive this, I will thrust my sword through your guts._

These kinslayer intentions were empty wind of course. After a sinister screeching and plenty of hammering – the monster was pummelling the last locks with his armoured fists! – the Ironborn were all forced back on their armour's reserves of oxygen, the atmosphere fleeing as the beast tore open their survival cage.

The magnetic fields on their boots held...small consolation when the hatch collapsed to reveal the face of their death. The paint of the titan's battle armour had received a new coat of black and red. With a pain in his throat and his lungs, Robin realised the blood of his men had literally soaked their assassin. So much blood...the grade and banner of the beast were invisible, scratched and covered by litres of Ironborn blood.

And Robin Greyjoy, youngest son of the defunct Lord Quellon Greyjoy, recognised a simple and deadly truth.

 _In the void, no one hears you screaming_.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

"I AM CARNAGE!"

The Ironborn emptied their black rifles decorated of the kraken, insulting the ancestors of the abomination and cursing his very existence for untold generations. It had about as much effect as before, and the giant threw his plasma weapon before unveiling a big claw on his right fist. It was coursed by red energy...and with the seer-ability of a dying man Robin knew this was the instrument of their death. Everything came too fast. Urgald's head floated before his eyes. Then the pain came. And Robin screamed as his body failed, begging for death to come and take him.

When the commanding officer of the _Dancer_ held his last breath, his vocal chords had long been broken.

* * *

" _Beware the Crow's Eye_." Anonymous Westerner last words, 289AAC.

 _Several attempts were made after the Greyjoy Rebellion by the Ironborn surviving veterans to distance themselves from the uncountable atrocities committed in the name of the Void God. One of the main strategies implemented was to pretend the succession of rapes and war traditions' violation had been ordered and planned beforehand by Euron Greyjoy, the dreaded Crow's Eye._

 _This was not very convincing for the Westerners and the rest of the Seven Sectors. Euron Greyjoy was conveniently out of their reach and the majority of his executioners had died in the inferno of Pyke. How courageous to let the blame falls on the absent and the dead._

 _While the Prince of Crows was undoubtedly guilty of the greatest number of atrocities ever recorded on the Ironborn side, no general directives or something like a policy to rape and murder were given in his name. What the Ironborn soldiers did the lords and the royal authorities concluded, they did it on their own will._

 _The survivors of Lannisport certainly weren't surprised by these affirmations. The Crow's Eye was not the kind of man one obeyed by love, and normal pirates looked like models of sanity compared to the Ironborn reavers..._

From _All Hail the Crow_ by Maester Gormon, 295AAC.

" _This is magnificent_." Attributed to Euron Greyjoy watching the Carnage of Lannisport, 289AAC.

 **Euron Greyjoy, 16.10.289AAC, Lannisport System**

One of the strangest rumours circulating on the Doom of Valyria was the fact one dragonlord had before his demise climbed to the top of the greatest of the Fourteen Flames skyscrapers and stayed there playing his lyre until the end of his culture and inhabitants.

Euron Greyjoy had long realised this Valyrian –assuming he ever existed of course - had had the soul of a poet, though it was better when it was possible to see a spectacle of destruction from orbit. A more beautiful view was available and there was less danger this way.

A lyre also offered a very small-scale music composition. To accompany a great space battle, nothing but an orchestra was enough for an appreciative listener. Thus the bridge of his flagship was welcoming today half a dozen violins, a harp, five type of flutes, several trumpets, natural horns, a couple of basses and three cymbals. Euron had intended to be a piano initially but unfortunately the narrow military corridors of his flagship had blocked this project. Contrary to what his ox-brain of a brother thought, _Silence_ was not a dead ship, silent like a tomb. It was just that Euron did not like other voices than his own to be heard in the halls, the missile bays and the diverse storage rooms. Well, unless they were agony screams when he did one or two sessions of torture. The music accompanied their last breaths, a departure in fanfare few were able to appreciate.

 _Too bad they can't hear the piano_.

Still, the result was extremely satisfying. From the moment he had led the attack on the first Lannister surveillance stations, his musicians were playing the product of his musical brainstorming. The Silence's commanding officer was sure that in time this classical composition was to become an artwork listened and renowned from Pyke to Asshai. The _Tears of Lannisport_ , concerto in three acts, a masterwork shaming by several degrees the _Rains of Castamere_ ordered by the grumpy old lion.

 _I was born to be an artist. Soon the entire Galaxy will acknowledge my genius._

The sensors of his flagship were recording everything in order to amplify the effects. On holo-videos, this promised to be sublime. The black explosions were tearing apart the void, the lasers were lightening the crippled hulks trying desperately to stop waves after waves of missiles and the fires were engulfing the totality of the orbital stations, giving the planet of Lannisport a crown of black-red and gold. His servants had brought him two new slaves – one woman, one man - to rape in the last hours, because he had a series of powerful orgasms watching his warships unleash in coordinated salvoes their arsenal of destruction.

Too bad the battle was already over. The tactical display in the middle of the command bridge was now showing a few crimson icons on the orbital stations, but there were no Lannister ships intact and free to return fire.

 _Everything went according to plan_.

A plan masterminded by Euron himself, this went without saying. Victarion wanted a straight assault, without any finesse or subtlety, on a day when the Lannister forces would be at their usual levels of vigilance. Terrible sign how idiot his brothers were, Balon had almost agreed before Euron advised the assembled kingsmoot to begin their rebellion in a far more victorious manner.

 _Truly their stupidity is astounding. Maybe I should have left Victarion lead his assault? It would have been so funny to lose the entire Iron Fleet in a single battle...no. As amusing as seeing the Ironborn be killed in two hours would be, this would have not advanced my plans._

A large smile formed on his visage. Balon, eldest imbecile of his worthless family, was under the delusion Euron had finally rallied to his ambitions of independence.

 _Fool. His plans are the opposite of my plans. I hope I will be able to see the expression on his face before the end..._

The Captain of the Silence made a small pout when one of his Ironmaker reavers entered the bridge. In his interest, Euron hoped he had brought good news. Karver Ironmaker was a good follower, but his battle-armour was covered of various corporeal fluids, and Euron had skinned the last man who had soiled his priceless Tyroshi carpet with blood. Logic required he did something even more insane and deranging to the next fool having the temerity to dirty it.

"Your brother is dead, my lord."

Euron giggled before bursting in laughter. The day was indeed a good one. First the Lannister Deep Space Fleet was burning exactly as scheduled. Secondly, one of his useless siblings was considerate enough to get himself killed. The urge to take a violin and play one of his little concerto rose in him. Maybe having his way with a gorgeous blonde and torturing her husband at the same time would be next?

"Excellent. Which one?"

"The Piper brat."

"Oh, him." It was a bit of a disappointment. If he had one day to speak honestly in public, Euron would gladly affirm this weakling of Robin was no Greyjoy. Robin was a sick child, passing half of his time in the medical wings of Pyke and the rest complaining how unfair the galaxy was to him. No weapon skills or any intelligence in his half-greenlander's skull. The pride of Balon, the idiocy of Victarion, the lack of reflexes of Urrigon...and needless to say an absence of originality possessed by Euron Greyjoy.

His demise had been arranged, of course. A whisper to the senior captains, one or two contacts with his supporters of the Pyke military shipyards, and Robin the Weak had been named captain of a brand new longship. Two of his Wynch saboteurs had allowed themselves to be recruited in the _Dancer_ 's crew, with orders to eliminate him when an opportunity presented itself.

Getting rid of this Ironborn waste had been definitely a favour made to humanity. Oh, and to Euron of course. The Piper vermin had not been a serious obstacle on his way to his ambitions, but one could not make a Wyk omelette without breaking a few eggs. There always was the tiny possibility his Piper cousins would have pushed for him when the time came to choose a new Lord Paramount for the Iron Sector.

"Who is responsible? I suppose flowers should be appropriate...chrysanthemums maybe?"

"My lord..." Karver Ironmaker clearly did not think this was a good idea. "The...thing that killed your brother isn't likely to like flowers. It's a monster. Bigger than your brother Victarion and far more bloodthirsty."

"What a charming character!" One second Euron evaluated if sending a party aboard the disintegrating orbital station in front of his warship to capture this fascinating specimen was worth the effort. Regretfully, his estimations were not positive. There was too little time left and the Lannister merchant structure was looking more and more like a gigantic trap of fumes and fires. Plus if this animal was more dangerous than Victarion, imprisoning it could be difficult for his hunters.

 _I will have to live this disappointment, it seems. Too bad, I would have loved presenting it to my brother in a pit fight..._

The image made him smile. Victarion, who had always prided himself on his force – it's not like the poor ox had anything else right? – vanquished by a bigger brute. How...satisfying.

A series of musical thrills coming from his tactical display forced him out of his pleasant dream to assess the changing situation. The melody playing now was indicating sizeable enemy reinforcements had come in play.

 _My, my, my. Looks like Lord Tywin is reacting in strength_.

Three massive starships formations had just made a jump-translation into the Lannisport system. Their current astral position and the thorough precision – the closest from the planet they could afford - did not leave a lot of doubt from where they were coming from. These were the Casterly Rock squadrons, rushing to save their comrades.

 _I'm afraid you are too late, Lannisters. How several light-hours away can be so distant and so close..._

'My lord, the picket longships in the outer edge signal each of the three formations is six ships-of-the-line-strong.' Informed him in sign-language the Myrish officer responsible for the sensors section.

"Designate enemies formation as Lion-one, Lion-two and Lion-three." Ordered the Captain of the _Silence_ in the rushed agitation of his bridge's officers assessing the newt threat and preparing to counter it. "I want a total count of the hulls they have...and if some void ships have avoided the destruction in the Lannisport yards."

The first point was to satisfy his curiosity. The latter was to determine the magnitude of the success they had just won. Not that the success of the sneak attack realised was questionable.

'Analysis complete.' Answered in sign-language his chief of staff after a couple of minutes. 'Eighteen ships of the line, three fleet carriers, two armoured cruisers, twenty battlecruisers, thirty heavy cruisers, eight light carriers, twenty-five light cruisers, one hundred and two scout cruisers, forty escort carriers. No sign of any deep space units detected.'

"What are we doing to do, my lord?"

A question which had only one reasonable answer. Despite the construction of Balon 'super-longships' the Iron Fleet was in no shape to assault straight-on the Lannister conventional warships in a location where they held all the cards. That the longships were nearing a third of their ammunition stockpiles would make an engagement even more perilous – or suicidal depending on the point of view one had.

"We leave of course. Prepare all units for manoeuvre Red Kraken. We go back to the void."

"Are you sure, my lord?" The Ironmaker warrior asked. "The-"

Euron frowned. While it was somewhat understandable for a subordinate to debate with him, the merits to do it in this situation did not paint a magnificent song of Karver's intelligence.

"Yes, I am." The sigh coming from his lips was not feinted. The reaver regarding him strangely had just won his tickets for a private session with him. A torture session, it went without saying. Euron had not yet decided if he was just going to cut his tongue or reduce it to a mindless broken husk...but Karver Ironmaker was not going to enjoy the experience. "With the Lannisport defences in ruin, the Lannisters will have no choice but to station permanently their fleet here. As a consequence, they will be forced to adopt a defensive posture the time to compensate their losses."

"My plan has worked to perfection." After all, why be modest? "I will not throw it to the Storm God and give the greenlanders the tiniest shard of hope. Let them despair, we will not grant them a victory to boost their moral. We leave. Now."

Absorbed by the spectacle provided by the space battle, Karver Ironmaker reacted too late when two of his mute armsmen manacled him, kicked him unconscious with a vicious blow to the head and dragged him out of the bridge. Satisfied a minor issue had been dealt with, Euron returned to his observation of the tactical display and the space destruction.

"This is magnificent." The small tear at the corner of his undamaged eye was no trick or illusion. The Lannister warships were launching tens of thousands starfighters in the hope of catching separate detachments of the Iron Fleet. It was a nice try, but doomed to failure. The _Silence_ was now accelerating away from the destruction it had caused, followed by hundreds of longships. Simple laws of physics dictated the terms of battle, and right now those laws affirmed the Ironborn squadrons would make void-translation well before any Lannister ace could fire a missile and scratch their paint. "And to know this is just the first spark of the inferno..."

Unlike the Lord of Casterly Rock and the rest of the warriors present in the Lannisport System, the Crow's Eye knew what was coming. The 'unfair' advantage of having magical potential and receive visions from the last greenseer when he came into adulthood.

The three-eyed crow had tried to convince him to join him, showing him the paths of the past, present and future. He had been the witness of things he had believed impossible. Planets destroyed, systems plunged into eternal night, humanity on the edge of annihilation. He had been tempted to take the role promised to him, the one of a champion ravaging the endless ranks of the menace. The third son of Quellon Greyjoy freely admitted the power of this greenseer was incredible compared to the one flowing in his veins as he contemplated the crippled hulk of a Lannister scout cruiser. Having this power belonging to him was tempting. Too tempting. There had to be a catch, and he had easily found it. A glimpse of a vision while the greenseer was distracted, showing him the real body of the mysterious 'three eyed-crow'. A being which was unable to walk the earth, plant his seed into unwilling women and take what he wanted when he wanted. Clearly, no worthy existence at all. What good was power when you were unable to use it?

His refusal had made the magic-user angry. The teenager he used to be had had the impression this greenseer was when he was living a man few dared to say 'no'. In a wave of power, the three-eyed crow had tried to bend him to his will.

But he was Euron Greyjoy. He was the Crow's Eye. And he bowed to no one. His defiance had cost him an eye, but he had managed to escape the mental claws of his opponent, and his powers had grown ten times stronger since that moment. Opposing the White Walkers would be under his conditions and his alone. When his plans came to fruition, the galaxy would be his...or it would end in a supernova of death and destruction.

The light noise of footsteps redirected his attention on a small group standing behind him in silence. A group of four waiting for his orders, not that they had much choice to do anything else. His three slaves had lost their tongue, and the woman they held was bound and gagged.

"Ah, Lady Lelia Lannister. How kind of you to visit my humble ship." Said mockingly the Crow's Eye, lifting a finger to command the slave on the left. The gag was removed, and the classical music played by the orchestra was interrupted in a rude and violent manner.

"Ironborn scum!" If the green eyes of the Lannister Lady could have sent lightning, half of his officers and slaves would have been reduced to cinders. "You dare-"

Euron gave a hand command and the gag returned to the mouth where it had been located moments ago. The flow of insults immediately stopped, though their speaker was far from finished. Another command with his right hand and the orchestra resumed its performance.

"We are so going to have fun." Euron whispered to the Lannister noblewoman, who froze under his gaze. Closing the distance between them, the Ironborn Prince nodded in appreciation. The young woman may be of one of the uncountable minor Lannister lines inhabiting Lannisport, but this didn't diminish her beauty in the least. Lady Lelia had to be something like twenty-five, twenty-six years old, in the prime of her life. Her golden hair and green eyes were complimented by a very onerous half-gold half-emerald dress with a large neckline. The breasts and the curves were well-proportioned, the face and the pale skin were pleasing to look at. After years of taking his pleasure with the flat smallfolk and merchant girls captured in the reavings of the Stepstones, this was indeed a pleasant change.

Taking his time, Euron seized the ritual dagger he was keeping attached to his belt. The Westerner woman's eyes widened in fear and he savoured it like a delicate meal. One strike...the priceless robe fell to the ground, neatly cut in two. Two other strikes and Lady Lelia was now only wearing golden heels and emerald earrings in front of him. Bound as she was, her attempts to cover her enthralling naked body went nowhere.

"Oh, yes. You have just won a promotion to my bed." Moving around his soon-to-be plaything, he whispered in her ear. "I hope you will roar, my pretty lioness."

And he burst into laughter again.

* * *

 _According to the news services owned by House Lannister, the answer of the Casterly Rock forces to the Ironborn was 'acceptable considering the circumstances'. This point of view was far from shared by the lords and foreigners having no alliance with the Lords of the West. Several Riverlanders and Valemen experts described the required time needed to execute the emergency jump in terms ranging from 'sluggish' to 'pathetic'. Even Galactic Targaryen News, noted to toe the line of the Minister of Information in all circumstances, emitted 'deep reservations' on the deficient preparations having led to this disaster. The intelligence services of Lord Tywin Lannister had utterly failed to predict the Ironborn attack, and rare were the captains fit for duty when the news of the battle arrived. For the Western navy, this war was really starting in a less-than-stellar manner..._

From _Lannisport: Story of a Disaster_ by Maester Loris, 296AAC.

 **Ser Gerion Lannister, 17.10.289AAC, Lannisport System**

Colonel Gerion Lannister of the Western Army had never felt really at ease on a warship's bridge. It was not, as some of his loudest critics affirmed, because he was unable to stand one hour in an enclosed space without making a joke. The Western army had a lot of bunkers and other underground installations in the Rock, and it had never stopped him from commenting the behaviour of certain superior officers.

It was not because he disliked the ceremonies and their length each time an important captain or admiral arrived, beginning a new succession of salutes, bows and small talk allowing the subordinate to lick the boots of his superior. The Western Army did that too, no matter how little they wanted to admit it to their navy counterparts.

It was not because he thought life was a cosmic joke and the perfect view of the stars was the occasion to joke and share the little things officers wanted to ignore or forget for the remaining years they had to live. Yes, there were a lot of insults and bad puns one could make, commencing with the word 'sulk', but there were other places having a bigger humoristic potential.

No, the true reason the youngest son of Tytos Lannister wanted to be somewhere else when he was 'invited' aboard a warship lied with one person and one person only. The man who was speaking in an icy voice in front of an audience gathering his biggest sycophants. His eldest brother, the master of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Western Sector himself. Tywin Lannister.

"When we will have finished them, the Ironborn will be only found in the Seven Hells!"

Gerion rolled his eyes. Of course his brother wanted now to commit a mass extermination.

"The Ironborn have challenged the Western Sector. They have attacked a Lannister world, a System under my protection! There will be no mercy shown to this pirate vermin! When we will retaliate, they will know the true meaning of the _Rains of Castamere_!"

Ha, here came the real reason of the Lion's anger. The Ironborn had destroyed billions dragons of investment and killed tens of thousands people, but it was the challenge to his authority who was enraging the Shield of Lannisport. Tywin had always had a huge stick in his backside – it was the polite version, foreign detractors had far worse things to say about it – and it had only worsened with time.

Honestly, Gerion was forced to admit their father Tytos had been one of the worst lords of Casterly Rock in millennia. As the youngest of this family, Gerion had been too young to see how their House was breaking apart each time their father chose to ridicule himself and his entire household, but Tywin had been aged enough to receive his share of humiliation. And yet simply repaying the consequences of their father's weakness had not been enough.

When he was aged nineteen name days, Tywin had demanded the repayment of all the debts owed by the Reyne–Tarbeck–Swyft alliance. Ser Harys Swyft had not had the sums demanded, but had complied and sent his daughter Dorna as hostage. It had been the most intelligent thing done by the Master of Cornfield in his entire life. Dorna Swyft had wedded Kevan and become Dorna Lannister, and House Swyft had avoided the dreadful fate of their former allies.

Later that year, Tywin had managed to circumvent their father and crush the Reynes and the Tarbecks in less than forty days of campaign. The fleets of the defiant bannersmen had been reduced to rubble. The orbital fortresses and the lands of House Tarbeck had experienced what a bombardment from orbit could do. And when the Reynes took refuge in their great subterranean fortresses, the battleships guns of the Lannister armada had melted the polar capes of Castamere Prime, sinking the entirety of the red lions' possessions under a mega-tidal wave. Over seven hundred and forty million Westerners had died to satisfy Tywin's thirst of vengeance. Two hundred more million were displaced and force to relocate all over the Western Sector. By comparison the Usurper's Rebellion caused by the Targaryens new brand of insanity had 'only' caused approximately four hundred million deaths and five hundred million refugees in two years.

But his eldest brother had not been satisfied to finish there, hadn't he? The Guilds which had tied their fortunes to the vanquished Houses were sued and condemned to pay exorbitant fines. More hostages had been taken over all the nobility than in a hundred years. Two dozen major merchant companies had been broken. And to ensure there would be no Red Lioness, the few women serving in the army and navy had been ordered to pack their bags and go home. From this point in Western history, the Western Sector military forces would be male-only. This was the rue cost of the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion, touching hundreds of thousand people who could care less about the feuds between Noble Houses.

Gerion Lannister had been five and unable to understand what had just happened when the Reynes were annihilated. It was only when he grew into adulthood and saw the sheer fear Tywin's name inspired that he started to acknowledge what kind of prideful character his brother was. Before 273AAC, these moments where the Lord of Casterly Rock wanted to demonstrate his ruthlessness had been thankfully rare. After the quite regretted and lamented Lady Joanna's death, they had been increasing in severity and intensity. That King Aerys had been getting madder and more disposed to humiliate everyone had not helped things. And now under King Rhaegar...well, speaking as a person who knew Tywin, he almost pitied the Ironborn. Almost.

"Yesterday, sixteen day of Velkrys, a day which will live in infamy for decades." Tywin had finally ceased his ranting and by the looks of it, was now speaking to the officer assembly as well as the Western Sector as a whole. The multitude of cameras, micros and devices in front of him were in good number to preach his word over a hundred planets anyway.

"The Western Sector was suddenly and deliberately attacked by space and forces of the Iron Sector.

It is evident at this hour that the time of the attack was chosen days, maybe months ago. During this time House Greyjoy and their bannersmen have deliberately sought to trick and deceive the Western Sector concerning their intentions. False statements for continued peace in the Sunset Void were made. Trade agreements were negotiated in bad faith!"

The rage and the rancour in these sentenced was no trick however. Gerion refrained to shiver as he realised Tywin was genuinely furious. The reports of King's Landing had assured their Lord there was nothing to worry about, and Balon Greyjoy had sent senior captains on courtesy visits at Lannisport, including two of his own brothers. With hindsight, it had been a grievous error of judgement. An error that the Lannisport inhabitants had paid in blood and tears.

"The attack yesterday on the Lannisport bases has caused severe damage to Western warships and its military forces. I regret to tell you that over half a million Westerners lives have been lost."

And tens of thousands more struggled to survive as they fought the remnants of the Ironborn reaver parties, tried to maintain the integrity of the crippled orbital stations and led salvation operations. Gerion would have to consult the figures, but he didn't remember House Lannister having lost so many civilians and soldiers in such a short period of time. Not in the last hundred years.

"As Lord Paramount of the Western Sector, Warden of the West and Commander-in-Chief of all the Western military forces, I assure you all measures for our defence will be taken. Pleads for King Rhaegar the First of His Name to declare war have already been sent. As I speak, a great muster to raise the strength of our space and forces has started.

Make no mistake. No matter how long it will take us to overcome this treacherous and dastardly sneak attack, we will overcome it. The Ironborn will pay for the deaths they have caused, and when the time of our victory will come, they will receive no mercy from us.

We will ensure that never the descendants of these honourless pirates will threaten the Western Sector for the next millennium.

With confidence in the terrifying firepower of our fleets and armies, with the unbroken determination of the Western Sector, we will triumph and the kraken will rue the day they have dared attacking the lion.

Hear me Roar!"

A thunderstorm of applauds automatically mounted from the hundreds of officers and dignitaries listening to the speech. Shouts came to demand the death of House Greyjoy and the Ironborn in general. Some of the most bloodthirsty in the crowd placed their fists above their hearts – assuming they had one – before raising it in a parody of the ancient Valyrian salute. One second later, their Lord Paramount reciprocated, though his piercing eyes and stuck expression saw no joy or warm sign. The message had been passed, the declaration of war recorded in all due form. Tywin stepped down from the spokesperson platform and marched out of the _Victorious Lion_ 's immense bridge, followed by hundreds of servants, captains and superior officers.

Gerion did not follow them. After all, he knew this crowd of self-righteous pricks were going to the great conference room of the ship-of-the-line, where they would stuff themselves of cakes, high-caloric foods, drinks and a lot of edible things not compatible with the military service's regimen. Around the buffet, these idiots were going to conspire their way further up the nobility and military's ladders, while at the same time common-born Westerners were fighting and dying for them in the darkness of the void.

No, it was better to avoid this kind of reunion. They always managed to rile him up, and there were already enough bad feelings floating around. Furthermore, Tywin would be here. With Kevan busy to commandeer the emergency rescue efforts and Tygett racing to the Kayce system, there would be no one to calm the troubled waters.

Gerion was trying to be good-humoured at all times. His men enjoyed him remembering their names, joking around, caring about their lives and sending a few presents when one married or had a child. It was giving him a feeling of brotherhood, a sense he was part of something efficient and positive. But every time he came into the presence of his brother, his thoughts turned darker. The birth of Joy, his treasure, had only deepened the gap. Briony Corover was the daughter of a very wealthy Oldtown merchant, and many lords and knights would have agreed to wed her. She was lovely and funny, she brought a great dowry. Her brown hair and blue eyes could lose a man in them. What was not to like?

Apparently, the answer of Tywin to that question was 'everything'. Not highborn. Not Westerner. Not belonging to the 'acceptable' class of society. Not enough prestige influence or power. The Colonel of the Western armed forces was sadly certain that if by a miracle of the Seven he had managed to counter all the arguments of his eldest brother, this stubborn stick-up-in-the-backside mule would have grumbled she didn't have golden hair.

As it was, Gerion had been forced to concede. While running away was tempting, the reality was that he was lacking proper resources to live on his own and his brother had scarred him badly on that day. There had been something in Tywin's eyes... Gerion had remembered the whispers recounting the walk of shame inflicted on their father's mistress. Briony was going back to Oldtown alone and unwedded. Joy would be raised at the Rock, illegitimate daughter of a Lannister affair. The court which followed the Lord Paramount of the Western Sector had been literally insufferable in the days following his humiliation.

 _They wouldn't be so proud if they knew the sort of secrets the Lannister have behind our golden drapes. Take Tywin precious golden twins for example. Joanna had to secure my help when she caught them sleeping together. I sincerely hope this fling has passed, because if they're caught now..._

Gerion snorted as he contemplated the full-scale ruin spread across the entire Lannisport System. What Jaime and Cersei were doing or not was not his problem. They were adults now in the viper's den known as King's Landing, though with the kind of teachings Tywin loved... it was mystery if the two had been ready for the jobs of Kingsguard and Queen.

On the other hand, the Ironborn flattening Lannisport...yes, that was a Lannister problem.

"My lord." The contemplation of a heavy cruiser squadron towing the ruins of a dockyard far away from the civilian merchant lanes ceased and Gerion turned to see his second Tion Laster regarding him with an amused smile.

"I told you not to call me that, Tion."

"Yes and I don't want to suffer the fate of Ilyn Payne, my lord."

The youngest son of Tytos Lannister grimaced. Ilyn Payne had been one of the first examples that the head of King Aerys II Targaryen was not functioning normally. For a remark boasted before a too large audience in a drunk state, the man had lost his tongue. The first act of cruelty of many.

 _Truly Elia Martell did a great service to the realm ridding us of this madman. A pity the rebels weren't able to remove the other mad dragon from the Game of Thrones..._

Sighing and realising there was no point delaying the arrival of bad news, the Western Colonel asked the fatidic question.

"Okay. How bad is it?"

"I think the answer is 'very bad', my lord." Laster was generally the picture of happiness, but even him in these circumstances was showing a funeral face. "Assuming our defences faced the total strength of the Ironborn, without keeping any nasty surprise in reserve, the bloody Greyjoys have managed to build and arm nine hundred and fifteen longships, plus of course one hundred and sixty of a bigger class."

"I don't remember reports of a new warship class reaching my desk."

Granted Gerion was an Army officer, not a naval one. But his Lannister blood gave him far more access than his present rank and influence might suggest.

"I think it never reached mine too, my lord."

 _And here Kevan and Damion had promised our poor mortal brains that the intelligence failures would cease after the end of the Usurper's Rebellion. Nice to know nothing has changed._

If they had been in his army's office of Casterly Rock, perhaps the two of them could have commented the failures and disasters that seemed to plague the Western military forces...but they weren't. Aboard the Victorious Lion, where everything said and done was monitored, it would be folly to speak words which could be construed as treason. Sensing they had to find a less risky subject, Tion continued his sum-up.

"We're a bit short on hard facts, but we have to assume these ships are the Ironborn answer to their lack of a proper battle-line."

This was a reasonable assumption. They just had to hope their spies hadn't missed the construction of another class of warships bigger than those they had just watched in action.

"Do we have any idea of the danger they represent?"

"Not really." Replied Laster unhappily. "Most of our warships had no chance to test their anti-missiles and laser counter-batteries. Based on their tonnage, the pessimistic assumption would be to place them on par with battlecruisers..."

"Let's not get scared of our own shadow, Captain. Yes, they have hit us and inflicted us awful losses, but I doubt their new toys are that good. Else they wouldn't have retreated when we brought the reinforcements from the Rock."

"It could be a lack of ammunition." Noted Tion Laster, as his assurance seemed to make its return. "The Ironborn have lacked a proper fleet train in every war we fought with them and they don't appear to have corrected that flaw."

Gerion guffawed in his beard. How nice to see the Greyjoys perpetuated the tradition of their ancestors to disdain long-distance support.

"Something to keep in mind for the short-term future, I suppose. What of our side?"

"The Lannisport Deep Space Fleet is gone, my Lord. The ships which haven't been captured or utterly destroyed by the Ironborn are so damaged we'd better build brand-new hulls rather than repair their crippled carcasses.

Of the nineteen major orbital stations we had around Lannisport, Ruby, Opal and Emerald..." Tion Laster consulted one of the data chips in his pocket before delivering the bad news. No, not the bad news; the worst news. "Fifteen have been blown up, ravaged by fire or too shot up to serve as more than targets for a fleet training exercise. Whether due to sheer resistance of our troops, blind luck or the relative rapidity of the battle, the others four are still relatively able to function. The defence stations are shot to hell...nothing to save here. Half of our surveillance stations are missing. The only silver lining is that these Ironborn scum have been careful not to provoke a Loros Incident."

Gerion thanked the Seven this indeed had been the case. Of course deliberate bombardments on inhabited planets had a tendency to antagonise every nation of this part of the galaxy. He could see why the Ironborn commander had not been willing to launch one or two missiles at the Lannisport population centres.

The loss of so many orbital stations however, that was going to hurt. Lannisport had had ten of them, receiving and delivering goods for the billions of people living below their heads. The three moons –Ruby, Opal and Emerald - had had three each. And only a third of this total had been used for military purposes. The rest were for trade, passenger cruises, etc. When the attack rolled in, those had undoubtedly packed with civilians of all births. Their fate...Gerion did not want to dwell on it.

"What about the fuel refineries around Sapphire and Loren's Star?"

The two gas giants were after all one of the reasons why the Lannister Deep Space Fleet and numerous warships were stationed all year in the Lannisport System.

"Intact, my lord."

"Really?"

That seemed...odd to Gerion. The Ironborn attack had been launched with precision and ruthlessness. The Lannister fleet had been reduced to rubble. Surely the strategist devious enough to plan for such a devastating attack would have taken into accounts the fuel issue, no?

"Really." Confirmed the Captain, who did not look like he had an explanation for the strange pattern of Ironborn attack. "The Ironborn have concentrated all their longships on Lannisport and its moons. Our facilities around Sapphire and Loren's Star escaped annihilation."

"Which is not that a bad calculation, when you think about it." Remarked Gerion. "Without any Deep Space Fleet we can't go at them in the void. Leaving us our fuel facilities intact is rubbing acid on our wounds."

This wasn't exact. Technically, they could launch a long-range void offensive. But taking warships equipped with jump-generators in an environment where the longships thrived was not an idea could qualify of 'good'. Plus the first celestial phenomenon in their way would tear them in very small parts.

"For the next months, yes my lord." Tion affirmed prudently. "But this will not last. The Royal Fleet and the Redwyne one will reinforce us. And when we will have the control of the Sunset Void back in our hands, the Ironborn will understand they have a big problem."

"Or we will know we have a bigger one to digest." Gerion sighed, watching the ruined prow of the _Pride of Lannisport_ being towed to the graveyard where it would be eventually scrapped. "Oh, don't look at me like that! If we couldn't take the joke, we shouldn't have joined..."

* * *

 **Bronn Wood-Brother, 26.10.289AAC, Lannisport System**

The huge terminal of the _Tommen's Sword_ starport had changed a lot since his last visit. Half of the golden decorations at the entrance had disappeared. The holo-screens showing magnificent landscapes for credulous tourists had been replaced by military propaganda and urgent incitements to go to the nearest recruiting station. Lord Tywin Lannister didn't want economists and workers first; he wanted meat to wage the war against the Ironborn. The music he was hearing was no playful melody played by an elegant bard but the dangerous themes the military enjoyed when they marched for war. The flags and banners vaunting friendship and free trade had probably gone directly to the incinerators, as now in their place flew the gold lion on the red field everywhere, sometimes accompanied by the red dragon on black of House Targaryen. Half of the shops were closed. Save a few food-sellers, the majority of the tourist traps and voyage agencies had decided not to open today. Big notice flashing in holographic red told these exceptional closings were quite likely going to last.

Gone were the disorganised crowds of travellers waiting or emerging from the shuttles. The few civilians present today were waiting their turn in neat and tight lines. Their packages and objects of value were placed on their left, with vigilant customs officer examining each of them with undivided attention. The bomb disposal squads were in the background ready to intervene should the need arise. And then there was the military. A sea of red and gold uniforms had taken possession of the place. Hundreds of soldiers were sitting in the waiting zones of the starport, trying to catch some sleep before their flight's departure. Thousands more were chatting or trying to find some manner to pass the time...which was difficult since the ladies were rare, the shops were closed and the presence of officers nearby forbid the exotic stimulants. Common uniform, formal dressing, working fatigues, battle-armours, army, fighter command, navy, intelligence, general staff and military police, every facet of the Western military life was represented. Patrolling in squads of six or twelve, towering Western armoured patrols were circulating and intimidating the few non-soldiers trying to evade the new security consigns.

Really, the starport had been transformed into a great casern for the Lannisport effort of war. Somehow, Bronn thought it was more fitting than its previous appearance. The Lannister regime was not known for its mercy and gentleness after all.

The commander of the sellsword company did not stay to his current position more than a few seconds before resuming his walk to an escalator and marching to the wing which was his real destination. While his papers and his accreditations – perfectly authentic, by the way – affirmed he had the right to be inside the starport, his grey-dark green clothes identified him as a professional soldier not affiliated in any way with the Western armed forces. In two words, they saw him as a sellsword. Which was fair, because that was exactly what he was. And besides, Bronn had never been comfortable when so many law officers were present in the same place. A small feeling that they could be here to arrest him if they knew of his past, coupled with amazement at their tendency to grovel at the feet of the highborn.

 _Myself, I bow only to the holy divinity of money. Pay the sums I demand, and I fight for you...until there's a chance of victory and seeing the pay. No money? Tough luck son, you're on your own._

Alas for all their love of money, the Westerners seemed convinced service in their own armed forces was preferable to a career in a sellsword company. The brainwashing of the holo-news may have to do something with it.

 _Otherwise they would notice our life expectancy is far greater than theirs..._

As he passed before big posters of a blonde-haired admiral proclaiming 'the Navy needs you!' Bronn saw here and there one or two soldiers sent him regards of disdain and anger. Well, it was not his fault if the basic pay of a lowly sellsword was three times what a private of the Western army earned. If they wanted to have the girls and the money, they better not keep their current jobs. Casterly Rock was not known to be generous with bounties and bonuses, and the lordly authorities were not overly concerned with the value of the men under their command.

One of the red-clothed officers made a rude gesture in his direction, and Bronn was happy to reply to him in the same manner, taking a new escalator and escaping attention before the brain-slow Lannister soldier realised he had been insulted by a lowborn mercenary.

Chuckling to himself, Bronn followed the itinerary he had been provided and arrived before a large archway informing all trespassers this was the entrance of the 'Bored Drunkard' establishment. A colourful illustration just below it was charged to explain why this name had been chosen, and a door completed the picture. A very secure door, to be exact, built on the model of those found on anti-blast walls.

There was only one problem. His invitation had not provided a password or a combination for this obstacle. And the only soldier leant on the nearby wall did not look like he was going to be cooperative.

"Could you please open the door, boy?" Demanded Bronn. And since he was a polite and charming sellsword he added the magical word too. "Please."

The soldier standing vigil in his freshly painted red battle-armour returned his gaze with a very nasty glare. Young, in fact Bronn would be surprised if he had reached adulthood, the youngster was powerfully built and dark-haired.

But there was something far more remarkable in the appearance of his interlocutor than his young age. Half of his face was heavily roasted. From the forehead to the throat, there were nasty black scars. Some places were looking better than the rest, but absent medical qualifications Bronn wasn't sure the pulsing red was better than the craters. The unburned part of the visage wasn't that bad looking. The burnt part was presenting similarities with the monster tales used to frighten children.

 _We had not that kind of men when I was in the Brotherhood, and we were the nasty bandits of the history. I am curious where the Lannisters are recruiting these ugly faces..._

"Go fuck yourself!" Barked the youngster, whose scars evidently not prevent to speak or insult his way in a conversation. "This place is not for sellswords!"

"Open. The. Door." Repeated Bronn, wondering what had happened to the survivors of Lannisport he knew to let this youngster on his own. "Unless you want your superiors to be very angry with you?"

Bronn had put a bit of sarcasm behind his words, but the reaction of the burnt boy surprised him. Baring his teeth – and the sellsword remarked this youngster could benefit from a better dental plan – his interlocutor placed his fighting hand on the handle of his vibro-sword.

"I'm going to kill you, piece of –"

Bronn placed his hands in sign of appeasement, but got ready to seize his guns just in case. He had already seen this type of instable characters in his career, whether allies or enemies. In general, they didn't last long. Their habit to make everyone hate their guts saw them rapidly dead and cold. When you have no one to cover your back on the battlefield, sooner or later, you're going to die. And if 'ugly' tried to draw his weapon, Bronn was going to terminate him, consequences be damned...

"Clegane!"

The disfigured soldier stopped his attempt to seize his vibro-sword instantly. The secure door behind him was finally open, revealing Lieutenant Ayric Sarring alone in a formal red-gold uniform.

"You're late Bronn!" One more second was necessary for the survivor of the Battle of Lannisport to notice there was a problem. "What in the Seven Hells do you think you're doing Clegane?"

The tone employed was giving hints it was not the first time the Inspector had been forced to ask that question.

"Lieutenant..."

"Yes, Clegane. Lieutenant." The sarcasm in Ayric's voice could have strangled an Ironborn handily. "This means that when I give you orders, it's not just for the pleasure of listening my awesome voice or the envy to get you out of my sight."

The Clegane youngster stood to attention, all the while trying to make an obedient face...and monumentally failing. Though there was also a shadow of fear in the corner of his eyes.

 _Fine, burnt-boy is not completely an imbecile_.

"If you're so eager to fight, report to Training Ground Eight for a few more physical exercises." Ordered Sarring. "And try not to kill anyone until the end of the day." At first, Bronn thought Ayric had made a joke, but the Westerner's face was showing no amusement or sign he had said something funny. The half-face disfigured man saluted and hurried away from his superior, leaving the red-gold Lieutenant invite Bronn inside with a sign of the hand.

The atmosphere was far more relaxed on the other side. A slow melancholic music welcomed the newcomers in a middle-sized bar where a score of soldiers and custom officers were drinking and discussing in low voices. The decorations were a bit ancient, with black-brown wood and outdated paintings representing the Andal Conquest, but Bronn found he liked it. Well, if he had to be honest he liked a lot of ambiances where neither lions nor dragons were present. Lack of gold and silver, all this shiny and ostentatious stuff the Lannisters and their bannersmen liked so much was appreciated too. His arrival made some heads turn, but the second after the attention returned to their glasses. This reinforced Bronn impression this was not a regular army meeting ground, and he followed his guide to a table of two in a corner next to a Dornish cactus. A bottle of red wine and two glasses were already in place, nice attention of the bar's waiters.

"Sorry for Clegane." Ayric was almost apologetic for the misadventure in front of the door. The Westerner blew the bottle's cap with consumed experience before filling half of Bronn's glass. "He's one the newest boys they gave me yesterday when I was put back on active service."

"Why don't you declare him unsuitable and move on?" This was a blunt and negative assessment, but Bronn had long concluded that when a candidate was not suitable, it was better to throw him out when there was still time. Otherwise you could be screwed in the middle of a battle...and war was rarely a gentle lover. "Better to send him back home if he's too undisciplined."

"Sandor Clegane has no longer a home." Was the tern answer as the second glass was filled with the wine. "He's the younger brother of the Beast."

"Ah."

In spite of a considerable number of years fighting in all kind of environments vicious opponents, Bronn could not stop his body from briefly shivering in fear.

The Beast. The Screaming Mountain. Carnage. The Monster of Lannisport. The Terminator of Slaughter. As many names to describe the same thing: a living being born and bred to kill. Also answering by the name of Ser Gregor Clegane when he was not busy reducing his enemies into bloody paste. Practically the poster boy of everything which had went wrong with Andal chivalry.

Bronn was an excellent fighter, a veteran of countless skirmishes and battles. In front of him, Sarring was also a very tough warrior able to fight his way in impossible situations. Together, they easily cumulated one hundred hours of full-scale battles. And yet there was no doubt that if they decided to attack the Beast, the monster would shred their guts in less than a minute. The difference of level between them was that great.

 _Plus he has that bloody Terminator armour. Best not forget that Bronn._

The Ironborn had tried their best to kill the Beast and they had failed. Three times, according to the rumours spreading through the military ranks, Gregor Clegane had been hurled out of an orbital station during the Battle of Lannisport, propelled into the icy depths of the void. Three times the Beast had come back, enraged and ready to slaughter everything that had the bad luck to be in a radius of one kilometre. Bronn had been among the first survivors able to see the remains of the battle firsthand. After the monster had shredded the Ironborn and impaled some of them on their own banners. There had been so much blood...

Bronn sent a thought of pity towards the youth named Sandor Clegane. No one deserved this kind of animal in the familial tree. And his burnt face was certainly no stranger to this 'brotherhood' the further he thought about it.

"I see they reinstated you to your former rank. I suppose congratulations are in order." Said Bronn, dismissing these atrocities from his mind.

The sellsword and the regular raised their respective glasses for a toast.

"In fact I was promoted." The expression on Ayric's visage was part-amused, part-disappointed. "Lieutenant 1st class Ayric Sarring. For a reason which continues to escape me, they did the same thing with Preslan. He's now a warrant officer 4th class."

"How awful." The sellsword commented. It was not entirely insincere. The big colossus always on Sarring's trail was the kind of man you certainly didn't want to give your tax papers and your bank account numbers. The Seven and all the divinities of the galaxy only knew what he would do with that kind of information! "You don't look ready to jump in joy."

The Westerner rolled his shoulders in feigned resignation.

"The increase in pay isn't that great. And they're sending us to Fair Isle in three days."

Ah, Fair Isle. The System had been attacked by the Ironborn practically at the same time Lannisport received the brunt of the Greyjoys' sneak attack. Unlike at Lannisport however, the Ironborn had not left after ravaging the orbital stations. They had launched a planet-wide assault, trying to defeat the land forces before the rest of the Western defeat could come to their help. Surrounded by the void, Fair Isle had no jump points for the Western military to send its conventional fleets. It was also perilously close to the Iron Islands...which meant the Lannisters and the Greyjoys didn't want the other to have it. Risky counter-attacks and hastily-raised divisions had allowed the Western forces fighting there to hold by the edge of their teeth. The Rock was mustering at the moment hundreds of thousands soldiers to make sure it stayed that way. The whispers filtrating from the Western navy told this was a bloody quagmire, one where both sides were joyously murdering each other every day. Yes, Bronn could see why this death sentence deserved a promotion or two.

"Oh, and did I mention half of the troops we've just received had never seen a laser rifle before today?"

"Horrible." Replied the once-member of the Kingswood Brotherhood. "You should have taken my proposition when you had the chance."

Ayric and Raff had impressed him during the Carnage of Lannisport, trouncing the Ironborn with nothing but their vibro-sword in parade clothes for the better part of six hours without serious injury. By the time the last Ironborn had escaped or fell dead on the floor, the fancy clothes they wore had been so drenched in Ironborn blood the dark red was everywhere, superseding the gold, the lighter red and the other colours. An offer to join his sellsword company had been in order.

"Maybe." Convened the Westerner, though Bronn noticed the expression wasn't affecting his dark eyes. Oh yes, Bronn could see why the young Clegane was fearful of him. "But we can't change the past, no?"

The glasses were filled again and the two men for a moment were content to listen the music and enjoy the ambiance. Not for very long, unfortunately. They had both duties to fulfil, and their own martial occupations didn't wait.

"I don't suppose I can convince you to join us for our little campaign?"

"In your dreams, only in your dreams my poor Lieutenant." Bronn laughed and served himself a new glass of wine. "I won't send my men into this slaughterhouse. House Lannister doesn't pay enough for men of my experience."

Making a mock attempt of reflexion, the veteran sellsword made a thoughtful posture he had once used to attract the women.

"No, I hear Tyrosh is nice this time of the year. With royal convoys in a hurry for the Sunset Void, I think a reasonable sellsword company will be nicely received in the Free Planets near the Disputed Sector."

"I would wish you best luck..."Jokingly replied his reliable ally. "But we both know you don't need it right?"

"Exactly!" Approved Bronn, finishing his glass. "Can I ask a favour?"

Ayric Sarring expression turned contemplative, evidently not knowing how to answer that question. It was true sellsword favours were known to be particularly expensive...

"When you catch Euron Greyjoy...make him suffer."

The smile of Ayric Sarring turned predatory.

"With pleasure."

* * *

 _It is 22:43KST when the last longship translates out of the Lannisport System._

 _In all, the Carnage of Lannisport has lasted seven hours, nine minutes and thirty-eight seconds._

 _Twenty-five thousand, seven hundred and seventy-eight seconds._

 _How many Westerners have screamed in the void during this length of time while their air supply was reduced to zero? How many civilians have perished on the crippled hulks, burnt to death by the radiation of Lannisport's star? How many families are torn apart by this massacre? How many soldiers die before having the realisation the Stranger has come for them?_

 _Official and non-official investigations would still try to find the answers to these questions half a decade later._

 _The Lannisport Deep Space Fleet, about eighty-nine warships conceived for assaults in the void, is no more. Over six hundred and thirty civilian ships share their fate, with more captured by the Ironborn as part of their damned 'iron price'._

 _The Ironborn have lost four longships and two others have been severely damaged._

 _The number of Westerners deaths confirmed is over eight hundred thousand._

 _The number of Ironborn deaths is in the vicinity of nineteen thousand and two hundred._

 _It is one of the most devastating victories ever won by an Ironborn commander._

 _And yet it is only the beginning. The conflagration engulfs the Sunset Void and the Iron Throne marshals its massive forces the counter-attack. In the Fair Isle System, the Ironborn and the Westerner forces clash, neither force ready to concede the critical stage point in the stars._

 _The Battle of Lannisport has ended. The Greyjoy Rebellion has begun in cries, tears and treachery. It will end in flames and ruin._

From the Greyjoy Rebellion by Yzabel Tendao, 298AAC.


	6. Heed the Dragon's Call

**Greyjoy Rebellion Arc**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Heed the Dragon's Call**

" _Lannisport was our victory! The first victory of the reborn Iron Kingdom! There will be other glorious triumphs before the greenlanders are humbled at our feet_!" King Balon Greyjoy, 289AAC.

" _Death to the pirates! Death to the Ironborn!_ " One of the many rallying battle-cries during the riots on diverse systems which followed the Carnage of Lannisport, 289AAC.

" _Contrary to their beliefs, no Ironborn on Fair Isle had risen from the dead after being blasted by plasma grenades. What is dead stays dead_." Ser Gerion Lannister, 289AAC.

" _Our enemies are bleeding us. Each longship destroyed, each Ironborn killed, each machine parts broken are diminishing how little time we have left. We can't afford a single defeat given how unfavourable the rapport of force is against us..._ " Lord Rodrik Greyjoy in a private conversation with his cousin Ser Harras, 289AAC.

" _Lannisport burns...how will the dragons answer this betrayal_?" Lord Jon Arryn, 289AAC.

 **Lord Varys Tivario, 20.10.289AAC, King's Landing System**

There were things which were terribly expensive in life.

A Yi-Tish jade statue of a basilisk at the last select auction of King's Landing?

Twenty-six million dragons.

A one-kilometre starship-yacht equipped with the cutting edge of Westerosi technology two hundred and ninety years after the Conquest?

The initial price came at five billion dragons and could easily climb to four times that much.

Become one of the three new Triarchs of Volantis?

Bribing the electors, the families of the Old Blood and those who mattered inside the walls of the Eldest Daughter of Valyria would be in the vicinity of eighty billion. Supposedly. The former Triarchs did not reveal their spending to the first newcomer.

Watching the King of Westeros receive a powerful slap from his wife and stay with his mouth wide open like a dimwit?

Absolutely priceless.

And there was the voice of the Queen Lioness to accompany this epic moment too. For the tenth time, Varys kicked himself mentally for not bringing a camera with him. He would have no choice but to hack the security of the palace afterwards in order to possess the replay of this scene...

"You! My husband! Where were you when the Ironborn attacked? Where were you when Lannisport burned? Where were you when the men and women of House Lannister died?"

A new slap came to end this tirade.

"Are you a man or a shadow?"

The third slap struck the royal cheek. The visage of King Rhaegar was beginning to take the colour of a tomato.

"Will you claim vengeance for the dead of Lannisport or will have I to do it myself? Act!"

At long last, the eldest Targaryen alive recovered enough of his intelligence to react. It was well-timed, because the Lannister-born woman was preparing another slap.

"Guards! Escort the Queen to the Maidenvault!"

Six soldiers in their parade uniform of black and red stopped standing like statues along the walls and surrounded the Queen. Not a weapon was drawn, but the warning provided by these muscled bodies was difficult to misinterpret. Though Varys noticed that behind the dragon-shaped helmets, three out of the six men were doing their best not to giggle.

"Will you give the same command to the Ironborn?" Mocked Cersei Targaryen. The visage of Rhaegar turned almost violet at this latest provocation.

The answer from the royal lips when it came was almost dispassionate, but every person present recognised the signs of cold fury lying underneath.

"Escort my wife to the Maidenvault. Her last pregnancy has evidently tired here more than we all believed."

A poor lie, since it had been one month since the birth of Prince Daeron, and the Queen had completely recovered from the ordeal. Not that the reasons given for the order needed to be logical or be grounded in reality when a Targaryen sovereign was involved. Throwing a last glare to the man she was wedded to, the daughter of Tywin Lannister let the guards escort her away. The rigidity in her moves betrayed how furious she was, however.

"Summon my council, Lord Varys." Commanded King Rhaegar before marching in the other direction, muttering all the way some nonsense about ungrateful women. The Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency and Master of Whisperers waited twenty seconds for the sound of footsteps before exhaling a loud sigh. This was going to be one of those days.

The seclusion of the Queen did not worry him too much...for the short-term. The Maidenvault could hardly be considered a dreadful fate, really. The place was a palace within the Red Keep. Granted it was one isolated from the rest of the world, but a very extravagant one, with all the luxury and the affluence expected for a trillionaire. There were several rooms, swimming pool-sized Valyrian baths, a large library – paper and digital – studies and art rooms. It was honestly more wealth and splendour the upper classes of King's Landing saw in one year.

"But in the long-term..."

In the long-term it was an entirely different type of disaster. The relationship between the King and the Queen had never soared to sublime heights –and how could they have when the wife would see the results of a badly-mangled rape on her husband's face – but it had soured exceedingly quickly nonetheless. The three births of Prince Joffrey, Princess Shiera and Prince Daeron had been the daylights of a very tumultuous union. Unless the spymaster misjudged completely the situation, there was not going to be a fourth child. The relations between House Lannister and the throne were deteriorating at a frightening rate, and the news of the Battle of Lannisport weren't going to resolve the tensions.

If memory was accurate, it was several members of the Small Council under very detailed Royal Orders who had assured Lord Tywin Lannister the Iron Sector wouldn't dare mount an insurrection. He had been at the time the only one to protest; Balon and his brothers were up to something and if the councillors believed the rearmament was for foreign sales, Varys had lands in the caldera of Valyria's greatest volcano to sell them. The last days had proven the idiocy of those peace assurances, obviously. And now said imbeciles were looking at Varys with dark eyes. Now that the rebellion had indeed exploded in their faces, the men supposed to defend the Seven Sectors were looking at the prophet who had warned them, not at the arsonist.

 _Sometimes I really want to abandon this little enterprise. Everything at court is totally and utterly corrupt. Surely it would be better to let everything crash down and rebuild when the dust has cleared_?

It really galled Vaelor Blackfyre that he was one of the rare men in the highest spheres with the will and the ideas to prevent the collapse of the realm. His job was to spy, report the threats and inform his King. It wasn't to run from fire to fire and stamp the burnings with meagre band of sellswords, prostitutes and lowborn scoundrels. It wasn't to keep an eye on every great Lord and Master of the Targaryen Council because they couldn't be trusted to do their duties.

It wasn't his assigned task and yet he was going to continue the charade a little longer. There was no one ready to take the throne and the need to present a unified front against the Ironborn was primordial. Westeros as a single body could easily deal with Balon Greyjoy and his bloodthirsty reavers. Five or six realms uncoordinated and quarrelling with each other would meet far more obstacles and problems.

Still, it didn't stop Varys several times per week to dream strangling the throat of King Rhaegar Targaryen.

Pushing a hidden button at the centre of a painting representing a big pear, the eunuch everybody in Maegor's Citadel knew as Varys Tivario entered an alcove and started to execute a series of digital combinations. The first activated the secret elevator he had entered instants ago. The second would inform all the Council members the King required their presence. The third were for certain of his most reliable agents in the streets of King's Landing to abandon their current objectives and come back home.

Before this day was over, there would be plenty of traitors and enemy agents to track and seek in the gigantic skyscrapers of the capital world. Balon Greyjoy may have started the hostilities, but thousands of hands were just as guilty as the Lord of Pyke. Some were on this very world. It was his men, women and children who would find them, monitor them, turn them against their previous employer and if need to be, kill them. The jurisdiction of the Order of Assassins was rarely enlarged to the sort of scum living in the slums of King's Landing after all.

Varys yawned, feeling the effects of many sleepless nights. His eyelids and his articulations were feeling heavy. Some hours of sleep with a comfortable pillow and clean sheets were a welcome dream...and likely would stay that way for the foreseeable future. His knowledge of the secret passages and the structure of the Red Keep allowed him to go to one of his rooms and take a shower, change clothes and perfume himself with a large dose of orange scent, a guilty pleasure which always managed to calm him and present a smiling face to the wastes of oxygen he was forced to call colleagues.

The next hour passed too fast, between changing to a 'perfect eunuch' look and gathering all data he could possibly require for this emergency session. When he entered the extravagantly-decorated Council Room, most of the other mummery's actors had already arrived. The Lord Commander preceded him only by fifty seconds and after him...

"All rise for King Rhaegar Targaryen!" Shouted the royal herald while the trumpets played the _Fire and Blood_ anthem. It was a totally useless demand since all the men present were standing near their seats. But then so was the long list of titles which were recited in the seconds after.

"King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Sectors, Protector of the Realm, Sword of the Faith, High Seneschal of Westeros, Field Royal Marshal of the Crown Sector, Master of the Red Keep, Grand-Mayor of King's Landing..."

Since he was a loyal supporter of the Targaryen dynasty, the Master of Whisperers never stopped smiling while the endless prattle went on. In the privacy of his own mind, Varys joyously burnt a Targaryen flag. There was a rebellion going on, millions had died, but the King was imposing them the full protocol! And people wondered when the dragonlords had lost their sense of priorities.

" ...and Heir of the Dragons' Blood."

If it had not been a crime of treason, the Master of Whisperers would have giggled. The dragons had long been gone and the uncountable attempts to bring them back had long ceased to be amusing when dozens ended in tragedy. Aerys and Rhaegar were not dragons but lizards trying to imitate the greatness of their predecessors.

Grave insult to the lizards, this affirmation was.

This was the reflexion which came to his head when the King stepped in from a door he officially was the only one to know the unlocking codes. Like Varys the sovereign had changed but where the Chief of the Crown Agency had preferred an elegant brown and gold robe the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms was wearing a parade armour covered with rubies and onyxes. His cheeks were less red than an hour before, though the scars on his cheeks were less faded than the ordinary.

The Master of Laws Tommen Costayne started to applaud like a good little boot-licker and the rest of the Councillors followed suit.

 _What a waste of money. I bet I could feed a hundred thousand smallfolk for an entire year if I sold this armour_.

It was a not completely irrelevant point when the last Rebellion had literally crippled the kingdom's treasury and the promise of another loomed on the horizon.

"Please be seated, my lords."

The twelve men who had waited the next best thing to five minutes for these words obeyed with alacrity. Garth Tyrell's seating was the most remarked as the Master of Information chose this moment to release a very sonorous and smelly flatulence. Lamentable.

"I suppose you all know why I have summoned you here today in urgency. The Ironborn have attacked Lannisport and destroyed the Deep Space Fleet based there. Balon Greyjoy has cast aside his allegiance and crowned himself Iron King."

Rhaegar paused and his purple-eyes narrowed with a frightening intensity which was not without remembering the late Aerys the Mad.

"I want this treacherous swine dead and his decapitated head on top of a bayonet."

There had been no powerful elevation of the voice but the tightened fists of the King of Westeros revealed how much this issue had upset his governance plans.

"Any suggestions?"

His audience looked at each other silently. The post-war years after the Rebellion had been marked by a series of internal struggles which had left plenty of animosity between the High Lords of King's Landing. Conveniently this band of highborn had used this period to 'forget' any enemy not including the former rebels. Almost a half-minute was passed like this before the Master of Ships reluctantly spoke.

"I will move the Dragonstone fleet to the Arbor and combine it with the Redwyne forces."

The repugnance in the words of Lord Lucerys Velaryon, High Admiral, Master of Driftmark and Lord of the Galactic Tides showed how much he had wanted to avoid proposing this. It was anything but a surprise. In the last months, all the propositions Varys had made to reinforce the Shield sub-sector and the Arbor had been countered by the white-haired lord.

"How much time will it take?" The question came neither from the King nor his hand but from Master of Laws Tommen Costayne. The Reacher lord evidently had to feel a bit less confident today than he was a month ago about the defences bordering the Sunset Void resisting a large-scale invasion.

"Three weeks before they are ready to depart."

"Three weeks?" The loud exclamation had come from Garth Tyrell. "I thought you had a fleet exercise near the Stonedance System in three days!"

"Yes and our 'fleet exercise' wasn't supposed to use the ammunition and the supplies necessary for a real campaign." Retorted the High Admiral. "Furthermore only three task forces were going to play a role in it. A third of our ships are refitted in the dockyards as we speak."

"Surely there must be a way to accelerate the deployment of our fleet." Pleaded Lord Costayne.

"There isn't one." Intervened Varys. Seeing the annoyed gazes of the powerful turn in his direction, the secret Blackfyre shrugged. "I am far from an expert in spatial affairs but the overhaul, update, repairs and preparations for an extensive campaign in the Sunset Void are what they are. For that matter the Redwyne fleet isn't ready either, so even if the warships of the Crown Sector were ready to depart tomorrow, they would have to wait a few weeks before the Deep Space squadrons of the Reach joined them."

High Admiral Lucerys Velaryon nodded in thanks to his counterpart. Not that it was necessary, Varys had just delivered the hard truth, but a favour from House Velaryon could be useful when the moment was right.

"But the Ironborn could treat the Arbor shipyards with the Lannisport treatment before they're ready." Lord Commander Gerold Hightower's voice was slow and powerful, but the fire of his young years was missing. It was regrettable; the knight had been an excellent commander of men in space and on the ground that few could compare with. But now Gerold Hightower was old and the black in his hair and his beard had almost disappeared entirely.

Old and no longer in his King's favours; it was not a secret that Rhaegar was guarded at every minute of the day by either Ser Arthur Dayne or Oswell Whent.

"I don't think so." Ser Alliser Thorne was as joyous as ever in his role at the top of the Secret Police. "All the Systems from Seagard to Sunflower must have received the news the Greyjoys have rebelled. They may not have the time to reactivate their warships if the Iron Fleet attacks, but their orbital defences will not be taken by surprise like at Lannisport."

"You realise this is all speculation, right?" Asked Ser Aron Santagar the Master of Arms. The only Dornish at the table, his nomination to this honorific place had been an attempt for Rhaegar to reconcile with Dorne. That Santagar had accepted lied more in his personal ambition than any Dornish will to miraculously forget the fate of Princess Elia Martell.

 _Still better be prudent. Underestimating the Princess resulted in a nuclear explosion, hundred thousand deaths and a mini-civil war in the capital. I won't underestimate a Dornish woman or a Dornish man again_.

Operation Downfall had been such a clusterfuck –to use one of Lord Richard Lonmouth's delightful expression – Varys had had no choice but to amend his procedures and severely question himself. The rest of the Small Council had showed no sign of questioning their motivations, assumptions and errors. To say the painful truth, they hadn't learnt anything from this disaster.

"Everything is speculation. " Bitterly affirmed Lantion Lannister of Casterly Rock. One of the dozens cousins of Lord Tywin, the Master of Coin had taken particularly hard the beating the Ironborn had delivered to the Lannister city. Gone were the clothes of red and gold, the golden-haired man was now in black clothes of mourning. "We didn't predict them attacking Lannisport or Fair Isle, I don't see the Ironborn attacking evident targets in the future!"

"Please, my lord." Said calmly Grandmaester Pycelle, caressing his long white beard with a pose which made him the wise and benevolent sage. "Of course what happened to Lannisport was horrible but let's not give these bloodthirsty barbarians too much credit. They attacked without a declaration of war, breaking the customs and the ancestral traditions respected for millennia in the Seven Kingdoms. This more than anything was the key of the devastation they brought."

"They have as much respect for the laws of war as the Dornish..." Grumbled Garth Tyrell with a new flatulence, gaining immediately a dark look from Santagar.

None of the men exchanging their point of views having anything intelligent to say, Varys used the opportunity to watch the three councillors who had stayed silent from the moment King Rhaegar's arrival had been announced. That the Master of Assassins was not explaining his position did not differ from the scores of previous reunions. Unless there was an assassination discussed, the 'Lord of the Seven Deaths' would not intervene. Ser Jaremy Rykker was the Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks and would not speak his mind unless invited to do by his powerful patrons that were Velaryon and Costayne. Lord Walter Whent however was the Hand of the King, in theory the second most powerful man of Westeros...but in practise the Lord of Harrenhal was looking completely overwhelmed by the situation. Sad, really. It seemed the Old Bat had achieved the feat of convincing himself the Ironborn pirates would stay in the ancient tales where they were used to frighten disobeying children.

"The defiance of the Iron Sector is unbearable." Declared King Rhaegar, interrupting without effort the growing quarrel between the Lannister, the Velaryon and the two Reachers. "Their destruction of Lannisport and the millions of lives they have murdered show how little the words loyalty and allegiance mean for them."

The red and black fist struck the table, and at least three of the councillors almost jumped at the brutal move.

"We are going to call the banners."

 _Oh, what a splendid idea_ , thought the Master of Whisperers. _Heed the Dragon's Call_.

In theory, it was the right thing to do...but how many lords would answer the call when a third of them would jump in joy at the idea of annihilating House Targaryen?

At the opposite side of the table, Aron Santagar tried not to panic in his seat...and was miserably failing. Understandable. The highest-ranked officer in the Dornish forces who would receive the mustering order at Sunspear was the Commander of One Million...and was held at the moment by a certain Oberyn Martell, also infamously known by the nickname Red Viper.

Probability of obtaining a positive answer ranged between zero and 'when the heavenly planets of the Summer Sector will freeze over'.

"Grandmaester, please give the orders to prepare the fastest raven drones available to Darry, Highgarden, Griffin's Roost, Sunspear, Casterly Rock, the Eyrie and Winterfell."

As Pycelle nodded enthusiastically, agitating further his large and furnished beard, the violet eyes of the Westerosi King flashed again.

"All the Deep Space Fleets of the Narrow Void will receive order to send their warships to the Arbor. With the firepower of Houses Manderly, Grafton, Melcolm, Whitehead, Estermont, Redwyne, Hightower and of course Targaryen concentrated in a single force the Iron Fleet won't be able to stand against us!"

A few cheers and applauds came from every member of the Council. Varys feinted to do both enthusiastically, though he really doubted the promised armada would materialise. When it came to the Storm Sector, Houses Estermont and Whitehead had a lot of reasons to hate Jon Connington. For the Vale Sector, Grafton might answer but their military power had not yet fully recovered from the thrashing Robert Baratheon had given them. House Melcolm was far less supportive of the Crown, and would probably not answer. The Manderlys would never move without the assent of Lord Eddard Stark...and the approval would never come, Varys was ready to bet his year's pay on it.

"Where will our armies and our conventional fleets gather together ?" Asked Master of Coin Lantion Lannister.

"The Reach, Storm and Dornish Houses could use Oldtown." Proposed Tommen Costayne. Varys sighed internally. The time of the Councillors not trying to take advantage of the situation in favour of their personal interests was over. The Lord of Three Towers had invested generous sums in the shipyards of his sworn liege Lord Leighton Hightower. Siphoning the money of his rivals while the realm bled was odious...but the Master of Laws likely did not see it that way.

"Oldtown is too far from the Iron Islands." The counter-argument came from Pycelle of all people. "The Banefort System is the better choice." And the unaware masses thought the Master of Coin was the best agent of Casterly Rock while the Grandmaester had sold his soul long ago to Lord Tywin.

"House Banefort has not the facilities to welcome the thousands of ships and millions of men an invasion of the Iron Sector will require." Affirmed Lord Commander Gerold Hightower with a heavy dose of disdain. "But Seagard has them, and the System is within striking distance of the-"

"No." If the looks Rhaegar Targaryen sent to his Kingsguard could kill, then the Hightower white knight would have been a dead man. Any House which had sided against him in the last Rebellion was suspect in the royal eyes. It wasn't important that Aerys had burnt alive Lord Jason Mallister's brother before asking for the head of every Mallister alive. And yes, the last glance thrown to Gerold Hightower promised untold retribution. The white knight appeared unaffected – undoubtedly Aerys had brandished far worse threats in his time – but if he survived the fighting to come, Gerold Hightower was going to share the fate of Ser Jaime Lannister, inspecting and visiting the different Sectors of the realm in search of agitation, discontent and betrayal. An exile in all but name because Rhaegar feared what the golden-haired young man could do politically with his sister. How ironic the Lannister siblings had not been thinking about the Game of Thrones in the first place...

"Not Seagard. Are there any other options?"

The question was not posed to anybody in particular. Which was Varys' cue to intervene and save the idiots in charge from their own incompetence.

"Casterly Rock and the Banefort Systems are the primary choices if you want the gathering to occur in the Western Sector, your Grace." Under his genial facade, the Blackfyre spy was laughing. After what had happened with his wife, Rhaegar would be in no hurry to visit Lord Tywin's seat of power. "For the River Sector the only choice is Seagard. The closest Reach base is the Shield sub-sector. The North has no facilities to speak of within acceptable range."

Not that the prophecy-obsessed Targaryen would have chosen the North even if the planets under Stark's rule had had developed systems available.

"It will be the Banefort." Decided Rhaegar.

 _How predictable_.

"Prepare to crush the Ironborn."

* * *

 _To say the River fleets and armies were ready to fight the Greyjoys at the end of the year 289AAC was a huge lie. Many of the Sector's best elements had died on one side or another during the Usurper's Rebellion. The replacement of House Tully by House Darry had created an endless series of administrative chaos._

 _Cousins slaying cousins and the short amount of time it took for certain Houses to capitulate before the Lannister military hammer had created or reinforced bitter feuds, the bad blood between House Bracken and House Blackwood being the most infamous example. The increase of taxes for the vanquished Rebel Houses had not really decreased the enmities. Where before two stellar systems had excellent relations and were heavily trading with each other, the new norm was frigid distrust, especially if the first party had been stabbed in the back by the second during the last conflict. Most Noble Houses had refused to comply with the new uniform regulations, transforming the meetings of River Sector soldiers into pseudo-carnivals. The classes of warship established by House Tully were virtually abandoned. The lords having the shipyards and the will to build their own classes did not wait long before doing exactly that. Before the battle of the Trident and the death of Lord Hoster Tully, the River navy and Army had been respected forces. What emerged from the crucible of the Rebellion were a dozen of factions each having different goals and methods._

 _Yet House Targaryen had plenty of friends in the Sector, and their capacities were still worthy of consideration despite the losses taken during the Rebellion. House Darry and House Whent, respectively having gained the Paramountcy and the position of the Hand of the King, stood like a single man with the King when the call for arms was sounded. House Mooton, House Ryger, House Frey, the two branches of House Vance, and last but not least, House Bracken, joined them for the impending invasion of the Iron Sector._

 _In other circumstances, the fact over one-third of the River Sector outright ignored the summons would have been source of consternation. But as the replies of the Storm Sector, the North and Dorne arrived, plenty of Royal commanders chose to see the good side of this muster. The River Navy might be divided in spirit, but it was capable to concentrate ten ships of the line and several dozen warships fit for raid warfare and battles where the capital ships weren't needed. The River Army would field over two hundred and thirty million soldiers in a couple of months. The young Heir of Riverrun, Lord Edmure Tully, would serve enthusiastically under the royal banner. It would be a propaganda coup for the Targaryen regime. Wasn't it?_

 _On the terrain things were very different. For the average loyalist soldier, knowing a sizeable proportion of the former rebels were staying at home while their own formations were thrown at the reavers was not reassuring at all..._

From the _Fall of the Iron Sector_ , published in 298AAC by Maester Yandel.

* * *

 **Lord Tytos Blackwood, 25.10.289AAC, Raventree System**

"Please tell me you're joking Captain. Please."

The voice of Lord Tytos Blackwood was posed but in spite of his best efforts the supplication was audible underneath. Unfortunately, the army officer who had just delivered him the holo-message did not return an expression indicating the affair was a hilarious farce.

The rest of the audience listening, two scores of men and women gathered around the millennia-old great tree, emitted appropriate signs of regret. Not a hoax, then.

"I'm afraid my lord that Lord Jason Mallister has sent a confirmation of his own...we haven't received anything from the North or the Vale but the analysts have told us we can assume their own messages are on the way."

"Formidable." The Lord of the Raventree System refrained from kicking the small table and the rest of the portable furniture in his range. "What is this idiot of Balon Greyjoy thinking? No, let me rephrase the question. Has the imbecile something in his brain allowing him to think?"

"It's obvious he isn't thinking." Replied Vice-Admiral Martin Blackvalley, in charge of the system's orbital defences. The scowl of the naval officer was pronounced, his contempt for the Ironborn impossible to miss. "If he had a few brain cells to rub inside his thick skull, he would know we do not tolerate stray dogs in our ranks!"

A large majority of the highborn who heard this statement winced at his bluntness, but no one opened the mouth to contest it. After all, Blackvalley wasn't in the wrong, no?

"I find myself in agreement with the Admiral." Declared Bernard Longrivers, the Grand Keeper of the Raventree Seal, in charge of the high justice for the two inhabitable planets of the Raventree System. "Balon Greyjoy wants us to be allies but his behaviour and his words say otherwise." A finger was pointed at the storage device having played the insulting holo-message. "These were not the words one speaks to an equal or a trusted vassal. These are words one use to command a disobedient servant!"

"I don't know if I would go that far..." The tone of General Hendry Blackmount was more conciliating than angry. Like his Admiral counterpart, Blackmount had come to the emergency meeting in his red shirt and black trousers which had been reinstated as the Blackwood uniform. "The Lord Reaper has insisted a lot on our mutual enmity of House Targaryen."

"Yes, yes." It would have taken a lot of effort to miss the sarcasm in the Vice-Admiral's voice. "We all hate the Targaryens though I am deeply curious why the Greyjoys decided to ignore our help pleas and attack Seagard at the end of the last war if they loathed our dragons' overlords so much."

Several diplomats chuckled in their beards or put hands in front of their mouth to hide their smiles.

"But whether they loath or love our beloved King Rhaegar is irrelevant." Continued Blackvalley. "My point is that if the Ironborn wanted allies, they might perhaps have warned us, oh I don't know, several days before they were ready to launch their attack on Lannisport!"

The acidity in each sentence could have poisoned an entire city...and the worst part was that it was well-deserved. Yes, Tytos had heard from his sources that Lord Balon Greyjoy was engaged in a large-scale military program. Such a thing was very difficult to miss indeed, and the issue it was more or less sinking the weak economy of the Iron Sector had made it even more so. But at no moment there had been an alliance proposition in the boxes. No coded transmissions had been exchanged. Not before today.

"Could our fleet be ready to conduct operations in the next fortnight, Admiral?" Asked Cleon Blackreef, Raventree's Grand Treasurer, getting an incredulous look from the Vice-Admiral. "I won't deny you have a point, but if these scum of Ironborn have given us the opportunity we want..."

"I see your point." Told the fourth highest officer of the Blackwood Navy, before repeating the same words in a more calm and collected manner. "I see your point very well. To answer your question, no our fleet is not ready to begin military operations right now. Half of our warships are ready for battle, but a third of them are scheduled to enter important overhauls in the next twenty days while two squadrons won't be released from the dockyards before the end of Sonarios. We could annihilate the Bracken Navy, they have been extremely negligent in their defensive systems...but we sure as the Seven Hells haven't the ability to conduct a major military campaign against the other loyalists of the River Sector!"

Tytos felt himself nodding with the rest of the participants. This negative answer was not unexpected, he had been informed three days ago of the full status his navy. What had just been spoken was a just a five seconds sum-up of the much informative and sensitive three hours-conference. While in his heart he felt a bit of regret at the idea of missing a good fight, the hard reality of interstellar distances and long-term planning were what they were. If your admirals told you the warships weren't ready, it was better to listen – least you have a disaster in your hands like the one which had just struck the Lannisters. There was still a big question left in the air, one Tytos Blackwood proceeded to ask.

"Assuming we and our friends of the North and the Vale don't rush to the Ironborn's help, what are their chances?"

"In one word, my lord?" Blackvalley lips' curled. "Infinitesimal."

"Surely the situation isn't that bad!" Exclaimed Blackreef. "I mean, the brothers of Balon Greyjoy have just crushed Lannisport..."

"And the King has still three Deep Space Fleets to throw at them." Reminded him the Vice-Admiral. "Houses Targaryen, Hightower and Redwyne have enough assets to lose two or three warships per longship destroyed and still emerge victorious. It doesn't matter how skilled you are when the difference in numbers is so large."

"Should we not intervene then?" Every eye turned to look at William Baldhill, Seneschal of Raventree Hall, the Raventree System's most post populated planet. "I hate these honourless pirates as much as the next man, but the Rebellion of an entire Sector against royal authority is not going to happen every day. If the Greyjoys are crushed, and I think we can all agree it certainly will happen if we do not side with them, Rhaegar is not going to give them lenient terms."

"Minimally, Pyke will lose the Paramount title." Bernard Longrivers said thoughtfully. "Heavy reparations for the destruction they caused all over the Sunset Void and of course Lannisport will also be in order."

"The dragons may decide to make an example of the Greyjoys." Warned Hendry Blackmount. "There are many rumours coming from our agents at King's Landing...several Councillors and influential lords are convinced that the soft terms of the Congress of Maidenpool encouraged Balon to mount his own Rebellion."

This revelation made Blackreef and Baldhill snort and there weren't the only ones. The true reason that House Blackwood like House Stark and House Arryn had received 'soft' terms was because the alliance of the West, Reach and Crown had been unable to defeat them. Watching the situation impartially, the conflict had reached a point best described as a stalemate and the arrogant loyalists had wanted to end the war before the whole edifice collapsed under them. The Storm Sector and the River lords who had been defeated had been handed far worse terms. For all their supposed 'gentleness' and 'mercy' the Targaryen dynasty was frequently displaying habits which were neither one nor the other. Names like Maegor the Cruel or Aerys the Mad were synonyms of cruelty, arrogance and atrocities in the tales, and it wasn't a grievous mistake.

 _Aegon the Conqueror was a better King than Harren Hoare but his successors are getting madder and madder. Worse, a sizeable portion of the South is saying nothing because they find the situation normal_!

Watching the immense tree over his head, Tytos Blackwood felt tiny and insignificant. The weirwood of House Blackwood had been planted after their exile of the North. Two brothers exiled by the Stark King after a particular humiliating defeat, but determined to remember their roots whatever destiny waited for them. The Blackwoods, the descendants of the eldest brother, had kept the memories alive and after the Dance of the Dragons one of their daughters had wedded the Stark. The North remembered and the exile of House Blackwood had been lifted. Since then thousands of youngsters had taken warships and gone upwards the galactic plane. The Brackens, the descendants of the youngest brother, had abandoned this idea long ago. It was them who had poisoned this weirwood tree, giving it a waif-like appearance despite a circumference of hundreds metres. It was the Brackens who had abandoned the idea of the souvenir and the promised return.

 _The North remembers, forever and always_.

The Brackens had betrayed the cause of the Rebellion, surrendering to the first Lannister warship which reached Stone Hedge. But they had not gotten the better part of the deal, since House Blackwood had resisted and emerged intact from the anvil of war.

 _How it galled them. They sincerely thought the dragons were going to award them titles but they were punished like the rest_.

But the long enmity between the two Houses was the symbol of a divided realm. A broken symbol, a tearful reminder of what it should have been. The Seven Sectors were more unstable than ever, else an idiot like Balon Greyjoy would never have dared launching his own insurrection. And if he had to be honest with himself, the Master of the Raventree System acknowledged his actions were going to make the next years worse, not better.

 _Not that our King really need my help to screw up things_.

"How many ships can we safely send to war without depleting the security of Raventree?"

No doubt any Targaryen supporter who listened to this question would declare him an oath-breaker and a traitor...but none of the spectators batted an eye at the question. Relationships between the Crown and the inhabitants of the Raventree System had frozen years ago.

The two flag officers exchanged a look. Finally it was General Hendry Blackmount who answered.

"I think we can muster the 7th Field Army...eighty-five thousand men, give it or take."

Given that the System ruled by House Blackwood had a population nearing two billion souls, a lot of people chuckled, understanding this would be an observation force and nothing more.

"Do you think you can find the escorts for them, Admiral?"

Vice-Admiral Martin Blackvalley emitted a powerful sigh which was so faked it was a miracle his nose didn't elongate from it.

"I think a battlecruiser and its escorts can be freed in time for the muster at the Banefort." There was a small pause before the officer finished with a last critic. "We could have sent more hulls to Seagard but I'm afraid the Banefort System has not the proper facilities to accommodate River ships."

"How awful."

Tytos Blackwood didn't know who made the spirited remark...and no investigation came to discover the cheeky impertinent.

* * *

 **Lord Richard Lonmouth, 08.11.289AAC, Fawnton System**

This was a nice day to go to war.

The sun was shining but was neither too warm nor too weak. The few grey clouds which could be seen were dispersed and promised no rain for the foreseeable future. The humidity was low and the temperature was acceptable, allowing men and women to walk without suffering a sunstroke or sweating in an undignified manner.

On the balcony where he was seated, Lord Richard Lonmouth watched as hundreds of thousands soldiers in red and white paraded while drinking a glass of cider from a Fossoway plantation.

"Look! The Trident super-heavies are coming!"

It was an unnecessary observation, as the uncountable ranks of red-white Storm soldiers were ending, releasing their place at the centre of the parade to the formidable tanks.

Despite his reluctance to reveal his curiosity, Richard activated the magnifying cameras which had been placed in front of their seats. A lot of rumours abounded concerning the new monstrous tanks Jon had ordered from Star Griffin Incorporated, ranging from the truly ridiculous to the terrifying. They had never been revealed to the public, and the Lord of the Lonmouth System could almost taste the excitation coursing through the highborn and lowborn audience.

Seconds passed, and the new model of gigantic armoured vehicles came into the camera's view. Gasps and shivers were heard when the spectators of the left terraces discovered the appearance of the war machines. Richard closed his mouth when his turn came, but it was not the envy which was lacking to him.

The Tridents were...huge. That was the first reflexion which came to his mind. Then his past studies came back and the different with the old Hurricanes Mark 20 became even more pronounced. The Baratheon-produced tanks had weighted 350 tonnes and had a width of eight metres. Unless his eyes were completely out of the game, the Tridents advancing at low speed for their parade were heavier and larger. Higher too, but it was less marked than the other characteristics. Like the super-sized battle-cannon the tanks had as primary armaments.

"Impressive, isn't it? Those are 404mm guns with hunter-killer shells. Nothing can resist them on the battlefield."

Richard turned his head and met the eyes of Lord Thurgood Cafferen. The seventeen-name days youngster was smiling so wide one could almost believe he was baring his teeth.

"Yes, yes. The new Trident X-3 is indeed...impressive."

Actually, 'impressive' was not the word he wanted to use. This mountain of durasteel in movement looked cumbersome when one put it into a contest against the old Hurricanes. The Baratheons tanks were at all times presenting a combination of lethality and ferocity. The Trident X-3 had many secondary weapons like a plasma gun and several lasers to massacre the infantry...but it looked like a big elephant and about as hard to manoeuvre.

"I was saying the same thing to the Lord Paramount yesterday, of course." Declared pompously the young Lord of Fawnton, the quantity of hair gel he had poured on his head shining under the spring's sun. "With these super-heavies in our arsenal, nothing can resist us. The Leviathans of the Ironborn will be toasted and roasted."

"Are the White Lions heavies of the Western Sector in the same league?" Asked Lord Musgood.

"No, absolutely not!" Thurgood Cafferen seemed aghast at the very idea of the Trident tanks being mere equals to something foreign to the Storm Sector. "The White Lions are good tanks, don't fear, far better than these Mammoths piece of crap the Northern barbarians use. But they are not Tridents, one shot of its cannon is able to dig holes in durasteel and the heaviest fortifications..."

Richard abandoned the idea of following this conversation shortly after that. In his opinion, the real test of the Trident super-heavy tank would be on the battlefield, not on the parade ground. Convincing Thurgood Cafferen of this, of course, was a lost cause. The brown-haired Master of Fawnton had just come back to his home planet after having spent the last six years as a ward of the court.

Force was to recognise these years at King's Landing had not taught him wisdom, tolerance or humility. The blue-eyed young man was extremely loyal to House Targaryen...and this was about the only source of good news Richard could notice, letting him wonder what sort of things King Rhaegar's educators told the new generation.

 _Lord Dale Cafferen wouldn't be happy to see what his son had become_.

The middle-aged Lord of Fawnton had been a Targaryen-loyalist at first during the Usurper's Rebellion, but he had committed the unforgiveable sin – in his sovereign's eyes – to lose the second spatial engagement fought in the Summerhall System against Robert Baratheon. Prisoner of the Rebels, Lord Dale had changed sides as soon as he had heard the King he was so proud to serve had condemned him to death. Richard would like to think he would have stayed loyal to the Targaryens but frankly he didn't blame the man...and in definitive it hadn't mattered. The rebel defeat at the Ashford System had seen Lord Cafferen's flagship crippled when the Lord of Fawnton tried to cover the Baratheon retreat. Randyll Tarly had boarded the _Proud Fawn_ and decapitated Dale Cafferen himself, sending his head and the prisoners to King's Landing. Aerys had been delighted by the gift by the way, exposing the former at the top of a flag and killing the latter in his arena of nightmares.

"What a pity most our fellow lords aren't here to admire this deployment!" Exclaimed the young Cafferen. "They might learn one thing or two about loyalty..."

Richard unconsciously felt his arms tighten in alarm. Was Thurgood mad? There were only eleven Great Lords on the balcony present, and half of them were here because Jon had more or less blackmailed them to come. Turning his head on the right, the Lonmouth Lord watched as Lord Stannis Baratheon gritted his teeth. Next to him were Lord Harwood Fell and his youngest brother Selwyn 'Silveraxe' Fell, and they weren't too pleased either.

Thurgood Cafferen alas, did not seem to grasp the ability of shutting his mouth.

"My forces are two million-strong! Two millions! Do you hear that?"

Everyone of importance had heard him on the balcony reserved to the Lords. However no matter where Richard Lonmouth looked, there were no gleeful or fascinated expressions. Lord Corwin Musgood and Lord Orys Herston, the two fiercest partisans of Jon, were discussing the logistical difficulties their much-reduced muster would have to rally the Banefort System.

Stannis Baratheon in his dark clothes was completely ignoring them as usual. More than ever, Richard wondered if Rhaegar and Jon were not taking enormous risks with the Baratheon Lord. Storm's End had paid significant fiscal penalties for its role in the Rebellion and its fleet had been disarmed – the proclaimed reason why they had mustered a single ship of the line and four heavy cruisers – but there were still whispers of rebellion under the surface. The second brother of the Usurper had married Ryella Royce, ignoring the 'advice' of King's Landing to marry a Celtigar or a Florent girl. Richard was aware Stannis' presence at Fawnton for the grand muster was for the protection of his young brother Renly, hostage of the Tyrells at Highgarden.

The rest of the warriors who had agreed to come were no prize. The Fells were watching in a placid silence auguring nothing good. Lord Alesander Staedmon was busy emptying a barrel of wine, and was humming a drinking song as the small Tempest scout-tanks moved to replace the Trebuchet artillery pieces and the Trident super-heavies were loaded on the heavy shuttles transporting them to high orbit. Arstan Selmy, Lord of Harvest Hall, was even younger than his Cafferen counterpart and had his eyes utterly fixed on the massive bosom of the girl serving him the drinks. The best thing he could say about the grand-nephew of the legendary Kingsguard Ser Barristan Selmy was that the brown-blonde fourteen-name days boy had his priorities in order. Lord Eldon Estermont was sleeping in his seat, two of his household guards protecting him. His Deep Space warships were the only hulls not waiting in this very system, not that the absence of ten light and scout cruisers was a sight to be missed. Lady Shiera Errol was embroidering a hat or another piece of cloth while discussing with the ladies of entourage. With the exception of Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Lady of Haystack Hall had not conversed with anyone since the parade had started. The woman had been unbearable since two years ago the Lord Paramount had forbidden women to serve in the Sector military forces; there was a minor exception for highborn women but in practise the Storm armies and other military organisations had become male-only.

 _This muster is a catastrophe. We should have moved to the Banefort immediately, the other Sectors and the lords who have stayed at home must laugh at us_.

In definitive, maybe it wasn't such a good day to go to war.

 _Or maybe organise this parade in the Reach? We're only a jump away from it and it could have pressured more lords to come pledge their loyalty..._

After all the tanks had paraded and attracted much cheers a new wave of infantry marched in front of the thousands of spectators. The men of House Musgood this time, not that there was a big difference with House Cafferen since there were all in the new red and white uniform and had only the emblem above their hearts to distinguish themselves. It was another reform which had been fought tooth and nail when the bannersmen had caught wind of it. To the point there had been several sabotages in the factories producing red paint and the product had to be imported at heavy cost from a minor Dornish company.

"Lord Jon is high in the King's confidence, you know. I'm ready to bet he will have one of the primary commands when we invade the Iron Sector."

Thurgood Cafferen's confidence was not very grounded in the real galaxy. How could King Rhaegar give anyone from the Storm Sector a major command? House Musgood had come with one million soldiers. House Cafferen had mustered two millions. Richard himself had brought two more millions. House Herston, half a million. Lord Paramount Jon Connington was the main contributor with four and a half million soldiers of his first recruitment wave. Not exactly astonishing, since Griffin's Roost was a system in full expansion, siphoning economically and demographically its neighbours. But all in all, these were only ten million men...a number House Tyrell had already mustered in a fortnight if the latest edition from Galactic Targaryen News could be believed. The other six lords watching the army formations walk in their full glory had recruited less than one million.

 _And the Tyrells have ten ships of the line ready while our entire Sector's fleet has six. Talk about a difference in quantity_.

"Still, there are so many warriors going to the frontlines." The Fawnton Lord for a moment looked about to cry. "There may be not enough glory for everyone in this war!"

"Land in an assault shuttle of the first waves." Declared Stannis Baratheon in a detached voice which did not hide the fact he probably considered rats to be of higher standing than Thurgood Cafferen. "You might gain the glory you seek before an Ironborn explains to you the reality of war."

This was horrifyingly cold, even for a man of Stannis' Baratheon temper. For a second, he wanted to call the son of Lord Steffon and made him apologise...but then the blue eyes met his and he realised how deeply the Lord of Storm's End meant these words. How joyously Stannis Baratheon would send them to their executions if he had nothing to fear in retaliation.

"Excuse me." Richard grumbled in his growing beard before abandoning the contemplation of the levies to his fellow lords - or the non contemplation in several cases – standing up and marching to the room beside the balcony where hundreds of courtesans were emptying the buffet of all the available drinks and food with an assurance proving this was a lifetime for them. The balcony next to it had been reserved to planetary lords and higher; this room with uncountable paintings and a dark wood covering the walls was under no such restriction. The competition was so fierce to take the best places –next to the Lord Paramount or the buffet and not necessarily in that order of importance – that his arrival was completely unremarkable.

At the heart of this mob was the Connington family, attracting the envious and the flatterers. Well, part of the Connington family: the youngest members, Raymont and Beryl, were obviously too young to assist to this high-level scene of political bickering. That left Lord Jon Connington, his wife Jeyne Connington born Beesbury and their five-name days old Rhaegar to satisfy the mob. For a few minutes, Richard tried to navigate anonymously between the groups, listening to the latest gossips. Lord Swann had gone in an orgy seclusion to avoid the muster of the Storm Sector. The Summerhall System was going to be restored and its ownership would go to Viserys Targaryen. Lord Hasty had made twenty of his men eunuchs after he caught them in a whorehouse. Scores of rumours impossible to verify, but they were funny in the ears.

Slowly but surely, the Lonmouth Lord closed the distance between him and his Lord Paramount...only to be stopped by the density of the human bodies when he was five metres away from Jon. Richard tried to attract the attention of his liege but once he achieved it received the silent message 'not now'.

Disappointment flooded his heart. But looking around him, he saw none of the men surrounding the Lord of Griffin's Roost were coming from anywhere but his home system and the Crown Sector. He would find no friends here.

 _Oh, fine. I'd better go back to my seat and empty a barrel of wine like Lord Staedmon_.

One thought came to his head and Richard Lonmouth find himself unable to hunt it down.

 _Why didn't I stay home like the others_?

* * *

 **Lady Ynys Yronwood, 09.11.289AAC, Water Gardens System**

"With all due respect my liege, your plan is full of holes and should be scrapped immediately."

The glare which was sent back to her didn't faze the Yronwood Heiress in the slightest. At twenty-two name days, Ynys had faced dozens of very intimidating men and women, some of them specially hired by her dear father to toughen her against the perils of this chaotic part of the galaxy.

The sick man sitting in his enormous armchairs with six or seven pillows could order her death, but nothing in his temperament or his gestures was dangerous. It was the Norvoshi guards standing against the walls who were the real danger, not him.

And if she was sweating under her enticing white dress, it was because the temperature under this archway was simply too hot, even for a Dornish woman. The hot season on the gigantic aquatic resort named the Water Gardens was hellishly humid and warm. To make the prospect of a nice shower more tantalising, far in the distance the exclamations of joy from children splashing in the water were heard. This part of the park was reserved to highborn and lowborn children allies or at least friendly with House Martell.

Ynys herself had never been invited to play in these vast swimming pools, spas, endless toboggans, relaxing geysers and the scores of other attractions, a decision she had taken very badly when her mother had announced it to her over a decade ago. There were still the public sections, but they were not the same thing.

"I have lengthily thought about all the aspects of this operation, I assure you."

That Ynys could very well believe. The part about 'thinking about it long and hard' at least. Doran Martell was many things, but hasty and prone to rush in had never been associated with him as long as everyone could remember.

No, the problem in this sentence was the 'I'...it was the prerogative of Doran Martell as Prince of Dorne to confide himself only in the persons he trusted, but given the imbecilities contained in the partial version of the plan she had been given, it was entirely likely no one but the Prince had worked on it.

"Then please explain me my Prince how forty thousand men and women can make a difference in this new rebellion?"

Strongly implied in this question was the fact the Reach and the Western Sector had already mobilised millions of soldiers. Of course, the bards and the rest of the news services were singing the praises of these 'courageous volunteers'. If one in ten had gone to the recruiting office, Ynys was ready to eat the wooden chair she was sitting on.

"Between our intelligence assets, our assassins and our sniper units, we can decapitate the Ironborn command structure once the invasion force will reach Pyke."

For fifteen or twenty seconds, Ynys tried hard to interpret the meaning of Doran's words. The Dornish Prince couldn't suggest what he just told her. Every soldier who had studied a modicum a conflict where the Ironborn were present – the Conquest and the Dance of the Dragons being the prime examples – knew their discipline and their command structure were extremely lax. By the tenets of their testosterone-fuelled culture, every captain of a warship was a king in his own right. They were sworn to Balon Greyjoy, yes. There were one or two positions like the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet and the Lords of the few planets they governed the reavers were forced to pay respect, yes. But it was neither a rigid structure like the highborn-dominated one of the Reach nor the fluid Dornish one. Once the horns of carnage were sounded, you could kill as much Ironborn as you wanted, they would fight until the majority of them were dead.

Overwhelming firepower was the key to deal with Ironborn, not carefully-timed strikes. Only a complete neophyte like Doran Martell could pretend otherwise. For a second, Ynys wished someone other than Doran Martell occupied the supreme post...before remembering who the other candidate was.

 _If the Red Viper was in command, we would have already launched our attacks into the Reach and Storm Sectors_. _How can one brother be such a hot-blooded murderer and the other so weak and indecisive_?

Now that she thought about it, Princess Elia had been a fine warrior in her days and had not shirked from her duties when the time to serve Dorne came. Not to mention the killing count she had piled up at King's Landing before her end.

 _Elia was a true daughter of Dorne. Is Doran an illegitimate child to be so meek_?

The eldest daughter of Anders Yronwood decided to change her angle of persuasion, since it was evident the man watching the kingly-sized swimming pools and toboggans in the distance was not going to hear her tactical arguments. Doran Martell wanted her to do a task with the minimum of soldiers and the maximum of efficiency, not understanding that sometimes one could not go with the other.

"Assuming you're right, wouldn't it be better to send someone higher in your favour to speak in secret with potential discontents?"

It was no great secret the relations between the two most powerful Dornish Houses were extremely frosty. Some might think Prince Oberyn Martell had paid his blood debt by a years-long exile, but Ynys did not. The man had killed her grandfather, and if there was an opportunity one day to slit his throat she would not let the occasion pass.

"Sending someone in the favour of House Martell would attract too much attention." Replied her liege lord, taking a humid sponge next to him and delicately placing it on his neck to freshen his tired head. This was not the first time since the beginning of their conversation Dorne's ruler was close to the fainting point. Which was strange, because the Lord of Sunspear was still relatively young, being somewhere in his early forties. "And there are other plans in the making."

What these plans were and what would be the incidence in her own mission, Ynys could safely say she didn't know and probably never would. She didn't have the smallest idea what the Prince of Dorne was trying to accomplish. At least the programs of rearmament, the research projects and the secret bases ordered by Prince Oberyn made sense! But outwardly, the eldest brother of Princess Elia was doing...nothing. 'One foot forwards, two more behind' were sniggering the critics as soon as no one of the Martell family was in the vicinity.

It perhaps wouldn't have been so bad if this culture of secrets and indecisiveness was limited to the foreign policy – no matter the legal status of Dorne, these days the Princedom was more a sovereign nation than a vassal of the Iron Throne – but this negligence was touching every facet of his rule. The military was in the hands of his brother, while it should have been in Doran's by tradition and right. The duties of seneschal, law master, treasurer and many others had been delegated to cousins or close relatives.

What was Doran Martell doing while the realm burnt and bled? He dithered and he planned. A fitting eulogy for his funerals, no doubt.

With a little luck, some of these machinations may prove fruitful before they were all dead and buried in the sands of time.

"The North, the Vale and whatever River and Storm lords will be present will want assurances of our commitment." After all, no matter the horrifying turn taken by the events at King's Landing, the Dornish had fought for this dynasty of inbred madmen called the Targaryens during the Usurper's Rebellion. "The Lannisters stabbed them in the back after the Battle of the Trident and half of the River Sector abandoned them. They will want guarantees."

 _They will want a marriage_ , she didn't say out loud.

"You will have my full backing to sign all the contracts you want." The Prince's eyes looked at the pink marble covering the entire floor of his palace. "There are only paper and can be discarded if our allies refuse to align with our objectives."

Ynys Yronwood, member of the Blood Royal of Yronwood, had a major urge to scream at the man seated on his small mountain of pillows. This was exactly the attitude explaining why her father had had so much difficulty when she was old enough to marry and the Yronwood emissaries searched for her a husband. Dignitaries had been sent to their neighbours, in search of a cadet or a third son who would be willing to set his aside his birth name and take the place who had remained empty in her bed.

The marriage quest, to say the truth crudely, had been a disaster. Between the stories – though it should be more honest to call them horror tales – the gossipers had spread on the Red Viper, the large differences between the Dornish culture and the blame which had placed on them for the destruction of the missed coup on 283AAC, the young men who had been proposed were all unsatisfying. Ynys was going to marry the Allyrion Heir, because none of the non-Dornish candidates had found grace to their House's eyes. Not that she was displeased by the choice of Ryon for potential husband...it was just she was going to get pregnant rapidly if she wanted to assure the future of their two lines.

Not that she was going to marry him immediately since her Prince had apparently decided for reasons of his own to send her in the middle of the biggest bloodbath since the Usurper's Rebellion.

"My Prince, if an agreement between a child of Winterfell and a scion of Sunspear is negotiated, I want to know if you intend to respect it." Ynys' voice was polite but firm. Dorne couldn't afford adding more lords on their list of enemies. The continued presence of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen on this very planet made sure the Crown and all the loyalist factions watched them with unabated hostility...of course it was mutual but Rhaegar and his lackeys had far more military might available than them.

"I won't sign any agreement if there is any chance we will be break at the first opportunity."

The Northerners and the Starks in general were widely insulted across the Southern Sectors as barbarians, cannibals, savages and illiterate, but that was missing a lot of points concerning them. The men under the direwolf banner had a low cunning in them and people who crossed them tended to regret it at the moment they didn't expect. Reinforcements arrived entire days after a battle while they were a couple of jumps away. Missiles 'inexplicably' lost their targeting solutions and self-destructed in proximity of an ally's flag bridge. A division of Umber ships misunderstood their orders and charged in the melee, ignoring the calls of distress from escape pods.

The Targaryens and their bootlickers of King's Landing feasted at the fact the infamous Pact of Ice and Fire had never been respected. They laughed at the humiliation the Masters of Winterfell had been handed in the Usurper's Rebellion.

They were morons.

When the iron fist of the North dropped, the Northerners were going to pay back three centuries of humiliations and wronged deals to the fallen dragonlords. Ynys had no wish to be on the black list of the direwolves when they plunged Westeros in a blood tide. Dorne's distance from the Northern Sector may be enough to protect her House from their wrath. But it also may not be sufficient.

The Heiress was almost waiting for the next answer to be 'my plans have taken it into account' or another platitude but the eyes of the Prince were lost watching the blue sky.

 _Err...is he sleeping_?

At first thought Ynys believed the Prince of Dorne was wilfully ignoring her but some things didn't stick. His beleaguered appearance, the sudden decision to hold this meeting in the Water Gardens while he had been absent from the Sunspear System for several months...there were unmistakable signs which didn't lie.

 _How ill is he_?

The Water Gardens weren't only the largest and most frequented aquatic park of Westeros, they had also cutting-edge medical specialists with maesters experts in healing and Dornish perpetuating ancestral rites for the mind and the body. The Prince of Dorne would be a priority client in all circumstances. And yet he didn't seem to be in very good health.

Opening his eyes all a sudden, the brother of the Red Viper opened his mouth and resumed the conversation like if nothing had happened.

"Is your squadron ready?"

"Yes, my Prince. One ship of the line, two heavy cruisers and twelve escort carriers."

A very small fleet, even by Dorne standards. And they were not the best House Yronwood had to offer; the cruisers had been about to be decommissioned when the news from Lannisport arrived, the starfighters inside the carriers were Nightingales, not the new Vipers R-2 who had entered service one year ago. The ship of the line was the sole unit refitted and having its place in the battle-line. Normal, since she was going to use as her flagship.

The small number of warships and associated support was the only reason why she, a lowly Commander of Fifty Thousand, was in command and not her father or one of her House's most experienced sworn officers.

"Then you can begin your deployment. Kindly remind your soldiers that I would be very satisfied if Ser Arthur Dayne died in the cauldron of battle."

"Yes, my Prince." The transmission would be made, but it would be a cold day in the Seven Hells when she tried her luck against the Sword of the Morning. Arthur Dayne had played the kidnapper role and his role in the death of Princess Elia Martell and Lady Ashara Dayne – _how could they be so fucking stupid we would believe an accidental fall of a building by the way_? – had made him a target for all Dornish men and women. But he was a warrior with few equals, the last rampart before the King and as such extremely difficult to reach. "By your command."

 _Not even an excuse for interrupting my marriage preparations with Ryon_. _Why am I not surprised_?

Feeling some pay-back was in order, Lady Ynys bowed largely to her liege, giving him a splendid view of what was under her robe's cleavage. The white robe she wore was not in the levels of indecency the Salt ladies took for granted, but it complimented nicely her body. With her blonde hairs and her blue eyes, the heiress of House Yronwood had not had any difficulties in her search for paramours. When she did this, old and man alike had lust burning in their eyes and their manhood suddenly becoming bigger under their undergarments.

It had not effect at all on Doran Martell. Disappointed but expecting such a result, Ynys Yronwood left the pink marble palace and Doran Martell plans behind her. The wheel of time turned for every living being, and staying there would bring no answers.

Perhaps the Red Viper could have given them, but the Prince-assassin had been imprisoned a second time a fortnight ago after announcing his decision to take his vibro-spear and go to King's Landing claim Rhaegar's skull. The Red Viper had been drunk, but over thirty guards had been necessary to arrest him. As much as she hated personally Prince Oberyn, the sellsword-assassin-prince was a man of passions and wanted to avenge the death of his sister.

Doran Martell had never shown any sign in public he was passionate. His wife had left him but there had been no grand quarrel or rupture. Vengeful thoughts for Princess Elia, assuming he had any, had stayed at the state of projects and non-executed plans.

"Hopefully the other war commanders won't be that boring..."

* * *

 **Lord Wyman Manderly, 10.11.289AAC, White Harbor System**

Wyman readjusted his heavy-furred cloak. To his greatest regret, his reflexion in the mirror did not look like it had changed that much. He was still...big-boned.

"Maybe I should begin a diet." Said the Head of House Manderly, thinking out loud. "I have become so large I don't enter anymore in my enlarged battle-armour."

A loud voice in his head began to shout it would force him to abandon the cream puffs, chocolate éclairs and Braavosi rhubarb pies. His entire mind screamed in horror and abandoned the diet idea on the spot.

"It isn't like I am a young man anymore, charging in the melee with the first lines." Affirmed Wyman, putting his Admiral beret on his head. A long gaze at his reflexion assured him everything was in place. His custom-sized grey uniform was hiding well his double belly, the mermaid emblem above his heart was shining in emeralds and the various decorations under it were impeccable. A uniform simple and yet affirming to everybody meeting him they had a wealthy and powerful lord facing them. "But I will find a way to get back in my armour. I swear it."

And on this oath the Lord of White Harbor left his quarters aboard the battlecruiser _Selkie_. Walking at a slow and purposeful space, Wyman took care to salute every sailor and non-commissioned officers on his way to the elevator taking him to the warship's conference room. It was in his opinion an excellent manner to know how the morale was going among the crew and prevent any incident. Sadly, it was a minor thing that too many lords and senior officers forgot when they grew older. The Northern Admiral on the other hand found it helped him keep contact with reality. How could you say you fought for a brighter future if you didn't even know the motivation of the men a level above or below you?

"Admiral Lord Manderly arriving!" Barked Rear-Admiral Wendel Manderly and the two scores of senior officers stood to attention around the holo-projector showing the present situation of the Westeros Quadrant.

"Gentlemen." Began Wyman in a voice which would not have been out of place for a mummer's show. "I have to profess myself...disappointed."

Posing his left hand above his heart, the Lord of White Harbor continued in a pained expression.

"Ten days ago, I assured our Lord Paramount none of our Deep Space warships would be ready to depart in the void before the 15th of Daomios." He paused an instant to gulp the content of a glass filled with red wine posed at his attention nearby. "Under the circumstances, I found the order acceptable."

Wyman took a false-angry expression and raised an eyebrow at his subordinates.

"Can someone explain to me why we are five days early?"

"We have still twenty hours of refit for our light cruisers, my lord." Reminded him Commodore Edgar Whitefort, who commanded the 2nd Squadron of Heavy Cruisers.

"Oh, I stand corrected Commodore." A small smile came to the edge of his lips. "Allow me to reformulate my question. Can someone explain to me why we are four days early? If we don't respect our schedule, certain people are going to believe we are eager to fight for our dumbass King!"

A shiver crossed the room. After the last Rebellion, no Northerner worth respecting wanted to have something like that associated to his name.

"We are doing our best, Father." His cadet son took several data-chips out of his large pockets. "But the fact we have decided to keep all our ships of the line and armoured cruisers at home has cut off a large amount of time we could justify. Nine-tenths of our carriers are also staying here; as a result we don't have the pretext to train the pilots and organise different exercises to coordinate the battle-line and the screen."

"What about declaring a series of public holidays?" Proposed Commodore Hazel Derford, the division commander of the battlecruisers _Illustrious_ and _Void Warrior_.

"As entertaining as it is to party every night of the week, I don't think anybody is going to be particularly fooled when the spies we survey will bring back the word to the High Idiots at King's Landing."

"Fine." Huffed Wyman. It seemed they would have to employ a different kind of hammer to achieve their goals. "Provoke a fake accident on one of our battlecruisers' void generator harmonisers. Its replacement should take at least four days, no?"

"On average, our shipyards take six days to replace one, yes."

"Any questions?"

"Which ship do we use for this little deception?" The tone of voice employed by Edgar Whitefort was bantering, but it was evident the man who commanded eight heavy cruisers was not exactly cheering at the idea of damaging for fun a perfectly serviceable warship.

"The _Knight_ or the _Shield_." Told Wendel. "Those are our two oldest and non-refitted battlecruisers since the _Selkie_ was overhauled last year."

"Then it is agreed." Said Wyman. "And this time let's make sure our engineers and workers know they are not to rush these reparations. Now let's focus on the Rebellion proper. Captain Seaworth?"

"My lord."

Unlike the majority of the persons sitting around the holo-projector in the conference room, the visage of the Captain of the List who just stood up was not showing any sign of Northern ethnicity. It was understandable, because the brown-haired Crownlander didn't have any First Men's blood in his veins. Born in the dirtiest and most polluted slums of the capital system, Davos had been a resourceful smuggler until the previous conflict seven years ago. With his ship the _Black Betha_ , the man had evaded and ridiculed the Royal patrols pursuing him, transporting stocks of illegal weapons, drugs and antiquities to aristocrats and merchants unwilling to stay in the legality.

However, the war had brought new challenges and new dangers. Where the Targaryen corrupt officials had been content to ignore shady activities, military officers were far more ruthless and dedicated to enforce the security of the state. After a succession of incredible adventures, Davos had found himself at the head of a little smuggler armada, paid by the rebel's treasury to resupply the besieged fortress system of Storm's End. The _Black Betha_ had done an excellent job, frustrating the Redwynes to no end for months...but ultimately the outcome had not been a happy one. Storm's End had surrendered, and with this loss the Storm Sector had capitulated to Mace Tyrell.

Lord Stannis Baratheon out of their way, the Redwyne fleet had 'rewarded' Davos with the status of void enemy number one. Tracked by hundreds of ships, the smuggler had found first refuge in the Vale before moving northwards the galactic plane when the Arryn bannersmen showed heavy reluctance to associate with a lowborn outlaw. The Vale's loss, Wyman Manderly's gain like he always said. When the crippled _Black Betha_ had broken through its void translation in the outer reaches of the White Harbor System, his castellan had generously offered safe haven to Davos and his family. And at the Council of Maidenpool, Wyman had obtained a pardon for Davos. The smuggler who had courageously prolonged Storm's End resistance was recognised as a Northern auxiliary and knighted for his deeds as Ser Davos Seaworth, becoming the head of the forty-eighth knightly family serving him directly.

Now that Balon Greyjoy had decided to rebel and the North was ordered to muster, Wyman Manderly had given him the _Selkie_ , the very battlecruiser he was currently flying his colours on. Davos was extremely competent and did not shy from telling the truth, two qualities widely appreciated in the Northern fleet. Who knew, maybe Wyman would be forced to promote him to Commodore once the Ironborn were given their last lesson.

The fact the Targaryens and the Redwynes utterly detested it was a huge bonus.

"The events of Lannisport have for the moment reduced the efforts of the Western Navy to mere bystanders in the war."

A click with the remote and all the confirmed raids of the Western Systems having suffered an attack took a black colour. As there were dozens, the representation in three dimensions was giving an image of weak red lights about to be swallowed by a huge black tide. It was a bit false, the Greyjoys and their bannersmen weren't going to breach Casterly Rock or any of their fortress-systems any time soon, but it was not exactly an exhilarating picture.

"As long as the Royal fleets do not secure Fair Isle and this part of the Sunset Void, every Sector on this side of the galactic plane is vulnerable. Half of the Northern fleets are being deployed as we speak on our western galactic plane to deter the Ironborn from raiding and reaving."

Smirks and guffaws echoed in the assembly. The part about the vulnerability of many Sectors was true...somewhat. But the recent messages from Balon Greyjoy, the self-proclaimed 'Iron King', to every notable leader of the previous Rebellion were a clear sign he didn't intend to attack the Northern Sector in the short-term future. Not that an Ironborn could be trusted to hold his word, Wyman was confident this was the main argument his diplomats would present to their Southerner counterparts.

"Three forces are organised as we speak, officially reactivated as 31st, 53rd and 106th Task Force."

Three light green points appeared on the holographic representation. One was on top of White Harbor, the second at Moat Cailin and the third was taking the location of the Dreadfort System.

"The 53rd Task Force, under Vice-Admiral Roose Bolton, has been chosen to reinforce the Seagard System with the few capital ships we have to spare. This System must be protected at all costs."

Left unsaid in the sentence was that the real opponent the Northern staff and its allies expected to fight in the foreseeable future was not House Greyjoy. These reinforcements were as much to defend Seagard as they were to convince the allies they kept in the River Sector no one was planning to abandon them.

The green point on top of Moat Cailin was highlighted.

"The 31st Task Force, under General Jorah Mormont, will join the muster at the Banefort."

A force which was frankly the weakest of the three the Northern Sector sending outside its frontiers. Roose Bolton had a ship of the line and two armoured cruisers, Wyman would have the Deep Space hulls and hundreds of thousand Marines in his transports, and Jorah Mormont would have...a show of force to tell the pompous arses serving the dragonspawn the North's obligations were respected. In real terms, it meant a couple of obsolete cruisers, some scout cruisers and thirty or forty thousand men.

It was the riskiest assignment of the lot as they would be surrounded by Targaryen-loyalist forces and unable to escape if things spiralled out of control. Not exactly a young General's dreamt first operation.

"The 106th Force is the Deep Space Battlecruiser Squadron we have here and its screening elements. We plan to join the muster at the Arbor...eventually."

Chuckles mounted from the throats of the men and women wearing the grey uniform and Wyman after laughing with them retook the centre of the stage.

"Thank you, Captain." A few seconds were passed waiting the snickers and other mocking exclamations to die out.

"It should come to no surprise to all of you the alliance offer from the Ironborn has been totally and completely rejected by Lord Stark."

"Praise the Old Gods." Whispered someone.

"Quite." Agreed Wyman. "Balon Greyjoy insulted Northern honour when he proposed such terms! In his own words, this whole Rebellion is just a vainglorious attempt of conquering a crown for himself!"

The Admiral felt himself losing a bit his temper and loosened his large fists, taking large inspirations and evacuating his wrath.

"We can't trust this band of pirates and scourges of the void. The Iron King may want an alliance to help him brought our rapist King to his knees, but we all know he will betray us the moment he feels he doesn't need us anymore. And we can't afford to be weakened anywhere given the current rapport of force."

Nods of approvals came to support this view. Not that it had exactly been kept a secret from the officers and the spacemen aboard the Task Force.

"Therefore our travel to the battlefields of the Iron Sector is going to be far longer than we had anticipated. We will use between ten and twenty per-cent of our maximum military acceleration for the entire travel. No Northern spaceship must pass less than five light-minutes from a cosmic storm, a comet or an asteroid cluster."

"The Crown is going to ask a lot of questions when we arrive at war's end." Cautioned Hazel Derfort.

"Let them ask!"

"Hear! Hear!"

"We will answer the order to muster...but first the Ironborn and the Targaryens must bleed." The visages of the men and women gathered in the conference suddenly had nothing friendly or amusing. To say the truth, there were many similarities with the predatory expression of a gigantic predatory animal about to pounce on a prey. "Oh, yes. Let them bleed."

* * *

 **Lord Rodrik Harlaw, 11.11.289AAC, Pyke System**

"My lord?"

"GAH!"

Rodrik jumped on his feet...at least this was his intention before the stability of his legs abandoned him and the world began to turn strangely around him. A terrible pain exploded in his right foot...or was it the left one? And then a good part of his body met the ground face to face.

By the Void God, it hurt.

"GGAAAAHHH!"

The panicked voice of his butler rang like a demonic song into his fragile ears.

"My lord! Are you okay?"

Inexplicably the pain cleared his head a bit. His chest ached in pain and his body felt like something had violated it from the outside and the inside but he could use his mouth again. And the Master of Harlaw was in no mood for pleasantries.

"Does it look like I'm okay? Bloody cur! Seed of greenlander's vermin! Mollusc crawling for the pigs of Pyke!"

He rolled on his back and his eyes regained enough acuity to see the ceiling. Moving his dolorous head to the left, the middle-aged reaver saw the office he was honouring of his presence had been completely thrashed. A few degrees on the right didn't ameliorate the picture. A piece of wood which may or may not have been a desk in past history had been cut in several neat parts...the instrument responsible for this particular destruction may or may not have been a large vibro-scythe hammered half-way into the wall next to the door.

There were bottles of alcohol littered everywhere and a third of them looked like they were powerful liquors. A damaged one near his feet explained his presence on the ground. A powerful odour of vomit permeated the air. The brown-black colours which had figured prominently into the decoration were now replaced by holes, spots of diverse substances, burn marks and weapon rounds.

"Is it a nightmare?" Asked the Lord of Harlaw, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to assess the scale of the mini-apocalypse he had created.

 _Note to self: stay far away from the bottle for the next decade_.

"No, my lord." Replied the servant who had been under his order for the last eight years. There was something in his voice which suggested the man wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Of course it is not." Grumbled Rodrik. "If it was, there would be rum."

A large lot of bottles marked with the grey slogan of the Pyke distilleries passed over his head, making him agitate his arms in despair.

"I think you have drunk quite enough, my lord."

His butler was right, but Rodrik was damned if he was going to admit it. Reader or not, disgraced by his fellow captains or not, he stayed an Ironborn and stubbornness was in their blood.

"Says who? I am still the Lord of bloody Harlaw, am I not?"

"With all due respect my lord, Alton has a point." Told an entirely different voice. "You have emptied enough bottles for the rest of the year."

"The Void God will crush your balls!" Grumbled the Master of Harlaw.

Huffing and swearing like the worst greenlander alcoholic ever –since everyone knew Ironborn never got drunk, they just rested and went back to their night of debaucheries – Lord Rodrik Harlaw used the half-destroyed chair a few centimetres on the right to stand. The ground pitched and gyrated, but this time there was no collapse, though he had to hold on something the time his equilibrium came back.

Once these concerns of stability were no longer a critical factor, his head turned to see the two persons he had not invited in his ruined private quarters aboard the _Void Song_ and yet were there all the same. The first figure was Alton Morvor, Rodrik's own butler, looking mortified at the image his liege lord undoubtedly presented to this part of the galaxy. The second was more massive and dignified in a midnight-blue cloth the Ironborn sometimes agreed to recognise as their formal uniform. The name of the man was Ser Harras Harlaw, a relatively close cousin of Rodrik. One of the few highborn in the Iron Sector birthed from the union of an Ironborn and a Westerner. He was carrying the Valyrian sword Nightfall with him, an object which was more valuable than what little fortune his father had not manage to dilapidate in the last decade.

And for about a hundred-plus hours, Harras Harlaw was officially the Heir of Ten Towers.

"Harras?" The Ironborn Lord paused to curse internally his weakened voice. "What are you doing here? I thought you had to assist to the War Council in my stead!"

Highly irregular, but since the lone Harlaw longship had broken out of the bloodbath at Fair Isle to announce him the death of his eldest son Quellon, Rodrik did not feel he could be in the same room with Balon Greyjoy and not thrusting his scythe into his heart. The death of his youngest Ravos at Lannisport had been hard. Losing his other son just after...

"My lord..." The austere young man evidently didn't know how to announce the news. Rodrik prepared himself for the incoming storm. He had a feeling he was not going to like it. "The council is over. It has been for several hours."

 _Damn all the Gods and Demons of all civilisations. Did I was dead drunk for so long_?

Watching his two subordinates, the answer was sadly 'yes'.

'Fine." The day –or was it the night? – had badly begun. No incitation to wait for another string of disasters. "Tell me the new follies our majestic 'King' had imagined inside his idiotic head. I can't wait to know how we are going to erase the Fair Isle's stalemate and conquer Westeros."

As the servant and the highborn exchanged glances of unease, he felt forced to growl and add a few more words.

"Well? I'm waiting!"

"My lord, we haven't been discussing the Fair Isle situation."

"WHAT?"

For sure the people who were in the next corridors had heard this exclamation but the Lord of Harlaw couldn't bring himself to care.

"What is this imbecile thinking? We have lost five million men in this disaster and over twenty-four more are fighting for their very lives as we speak!"

"I know my lord. But it's the reality."

A wave of lassitude began to weigh on Rodrik's shoulders. Shouting at his cousin would solve nothing. The son of Grangon Harlaw and Lady Cyrella Serrett was not responsible for the general lack of brain spread thorough the Ironborn culture. Shooting the messenger was all fine and good for the relief, but in the end it only delayed the bad news, it didn't cancel their existence.

Balon, Victarion and the rest of the Squadron Commanders had never been very shy to communicate their anger at the fact the Westerners held thick and firm against the Ironborn assault. It looked like that with the losses mounting and the orbital superiority growing even more contested the King had decided to ignore the problem until it had enough teeth to bite back.

"Since Fair Isle wasn't discussed, I suppose you can tell me what kind of salad Balon decided to regale you with?"

"Ah, it was a briefing on Operation Dalton."

Rodrik frowned and tried to find memories inside his foggy mind of a military operation using this code-name. He didn't find it.

"Named as such for Dalton Greyjoy the Red Kraken?" A nod of confirmation came to support this shot in the dark. Not that there was that many 'Daltons Greyjoys' having massacred their way on an uncountable numbers of planets. "And what does it consist in?"

"A double attack on the Reach Deep Space assets and fortress systems." Rodrik's lassitude increased by several levels and he nonchalantly threw an empty bottle of 'Dire Vodka' against the wall, joining the debris of several glass objects.

"Of course." There was nothing to say really against such stupidity. The Ironborn longships and armies were already progressively overwhelmed by the numbers each tide of Lannister reinforcements sent into the inferno. The raids became costly failures as the planetary defences waited for them and resisted with storms of lasers and missiles. The surprise effect the Ironborn had enjoyed for the first days of their rebellion was gone. Only a brainless man would try to open a second front when the first was already turning into a catastrophe. "Any specific details?"

"The first assault will fall on the Shield Sub-Sector. Four of the great longships, one hundred and sixty longships and eighty big transports have been sent yesterday. I do not know if they intend to assault one by one the four planets or strike at the same time."

"This is Balon's master plan and he is advised by Victarion, Lord Urrathon Blacktyde and the Void God only knows who else. The attack will be simultaneous on the four planets."

After all when those three were concerned, the most unreasonable battle-plan was going to be chosen.

"As you say, my lord. The commanders of this operation are your nephews Rodrik and Maron, Lord Waldon Wynch and Lord Meldred Merlyn."

 _I just lost my sons and now I will have Alannys to console too. Not that her two eldest have become anything but embarrassments_.

If the absence of common sense was to be made a crime on the Iron Sector, half of the population would be in chains the next morning and the two problems that were Maron and Rodrik Greyjoy would be public enemy number four and five.

 _We must leave the grand contest to Balon, Victarion and Urrathon_...

"Where do they intent to attack after that?"

"The Arbor, my lord. They intend to use the Iron Fleet and the majority of the longships we have in our arsenal."

"Of course." Sighed Rodrik. After all if the first choice was a target that Highgarden had had the time to reinforce and fortify with uncountable missile platforms and ship-killer weapons, why not attack the System where every Deep Space Fleet of Westeros was converging?

Rodrik had warned them. He should have not wasted his time and his saliva apparently.

"Is Balon aware that the number of warships around the Redwyne planets is going to be...substantial?"

"The estimations presented at the War Council were a bit too low compared to what we know." Shrugged the wielder of Nightfall. "I think it was after this point that the Crow's Eye stormed out of the council room."

That did not sound like the cadet son of Lord Quellon Greyjoy he remembered. The care the Prince of Crows had for his fellow reavers was so close to the void it might not exist at all.

"He told them if they wanted to suicide themselves, they could do it without him."

The Captain of the Sea Song wanted to kick his head against the ruined desk. When you had a strategist oscillating between brilliance and insanity like Euron did, this meant the strategy went beyond the little thing known as reality.

"Oh, err...you have been ordered to hold the Lannister forces at bay for the time it will take for our glorious King to defeat the Tyrells, the Redwynes, the Hightowers, the Targaryens and all the Houses following them."

By the words employed, Harras had enough sense in his head to know how likely Balon Greyjoy was going to win against such a formidable opposition.

"What did he leave us with?"

"Not much." Said unhappily his bannersman. "The ships you sent back to Harlaw a fortnight ago. The _Void Song_ and its squadron, maybe the _Silence_ if Euron feels like obeying your orders."

Rodrik could not help but laugh at that one. Euron Greyjoy listening to him? Robert Baratheon was far more likely to resurrect and declare his undying love for the Targaryen dynasty than such an outrageous thing!

"I am going to make myself presentable." Ordered the Ironborn commander once his moment of hilarity was over. "Wait for me on the bridge. And Harras?"

"Yes my lord?"

Deciding he might as well recognise his loss and move past it, Rodrik Harlaw threw to his cousin the little emblem with grey towers he had kept in his pocket after cleaning it from the blood of Quellon.

"You are now the Knight of Grey Garden. Congratulations."

The sincere smile which came on the youngster's face convinced him he had made the good choice. Not that he would have had many alternatives if it wasn't the case, mind you. Hotho and Boremund were not exactly famous for their wits. Perhaps young Asha and Theon would be more intelligent than their eldest siblings...but House Greyjoy had to survive the hurricane of destruction coming their way first. Recognising Harras as his Heir would go a long way to put back some stability in the Harlaw line of succession. Plus it would reassure some of his most hesitant bannersmen.

This was what he tried to convince himself anyway as he made disappear his wine-stained clothes with the rest of the dirty laundry, got rid of the astounding number of bottles in the mechanic compactors and helped his butler remove the ravaged furniture.

One hour, a shower and a change of appearance later, he had retaken a decent appearance as he entered the bridge of the _Void Song_. Among the acclamations announcing his presence to the three scores of men in spacesuits working, the Lord of Harlaw watched on the grand tactical display hundreds of dots putting the maximum of distance with Pyke and then disappearing into the void.

"Pillage then burn." Whispered the Captain of the _Void Song_ to himself. "Bloody Pirates..."

"Your orders my lord?"

"Muster all the transports and warships our King left us. We must save the army we have at Fair Isle at all costs."

The reavers on his bridge solemnly nodded and gave their approvals. The endless stream of casualties and the death of his two sons among tens of thousands others had convinced a fair majority of his Harlaw crewmen that this Rebellion was not going to be the walk-over they had been promised.

Those who had seen the light before the most recent disaster had been kept in reserve at Harlaw...those who had not were going to the Reach Sector. Rodrik felt he would not see them back again...not unless the very luck of the Void God was with them.

The black-matter engines of his longship saw their power output roar seconds after seconds. Green lights flicked on across the dozens screens of tactical, communication, astrogation and engineering. Despite the difficult times ahead, despite the imbecility of his liege – who was also unfortunately his brother-in-law - , despite the death of his family, Rodrik Harlaw began to feel alive again.

Placing the large hat of his father on his head, a large book hidden above his heart and his vibro-scythe on his back, the Lord of the Harlaw System took the antique wooden helm and started to sing a familiar tune every children of the Iron Sector knew.

Seconds later, hundreds of his men followed him. This was their hymn and no one would stop from singing it to thousands of Systems until the end of times.

"Yo ho, yo ho, a reaver's life for me...

We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and we loot!

Drink up, me 'hearties, yo ho!"

* * *

 **Lord Osbert Serry, 5.12.289AAC, Southshield System**

"My lord, our sensors have just detected a fleet making a void translation into our system six minutes ago."

The announcement should have made Lord Osbert very unhappy, but instead the Master of Southshield felt only relief. At long last, he had found a good excuse to not assist the marriage of his neighbour Lord Moribald Chester with the ugly harpy known as Selyse Florent.

"Where?"

"Three light-hours away from us, on the ecliptic."

The man had a half-amazed look on his face and his lord understood it; it was an arrogant approach which had nothing subtle in it.

"Very good, Captain." He affirmed formally.

"Launch the evacuation of our orbital sessions and remind our officers it must be done in the most ostensible manner possible." The smile on his lip widened. "You can activate all our platforms and warn Lord Paxter. I will join you shortly."

The officer saluted in his pale green uniform before cutting the connection.

"So the fox comes to reconnoitre the henhouse..."

* * *

" _History always happens twice because no one was listening the first time_." Lord Rodrik Harlaw, 300AAC.

" _When you try to shatter a shield, try not to be shattered in the process_." Lady Ynys Yronwood, 290AAC.

" _I wonder if they will learn the good lessons of this rebellion_." Lord Wyman Manderly, 290AAC.

" _Operation Dalton is worthy to be recognised as one of the worst plans ever conceived in human military history_." Lord Tytos Blackwood, 298AAC.


	7. A Shield of Missiles and Lasers

**Greyjoy Rebellion Arc**

 **Chapter 3**

 **A Shield of Missiles and Lasers**

 _Protecting a planet from any conceivable attack is no easy task. Space is big, and even the best sensors have enormous difficulties watching over the unfathomable abysses of the void. This does not mean humanity has not imagined plenty of machines and stratagems to defend their homes in the course of its long and bloody history. Between orbital space stations, drones, surveillance stations and the mobile warships, a stellar system sufficiently fortified can be a very hard target to crack._

 _A young Reach nobleman wishing to inform himself on the realities of space warfare would have expected the subject of a stellar system's defence to be constantly innovated. This aristocrat would make a wrong assumption. From the end of the Blackfyre Rebellions, the High Command of the Reach had been more concerned with commissioning their splendid septs-ships of the line than analysing the flaws of the minelayers, forts and laser systems charged to protect them if an enemy passed nearby._

 _To be fair, this lack of reforms was hardly limited to the Reach. Under the reign of Aerys II, the stellar realm of Westeros knew peace for close to two decades and plenty of military budget propositions were outright cancelled. After all, with the Blackfyres gone, there wasn't any external enemy with the will and the strength to challenge the warships sworn to the Targaryen dynasty, no?_

 _Reinforcing a system's defence in this era of peace was simply not a priority across the Seven Sectors, and nowhere was it more evident than the Reach. Lord Luthor Tyrell built sumptuous battlecruisers and entire wings of starfighters in his position of Master of Highgarden, but proposed no plans of any sort to counter a potential enemy attack. When the Lord Paramount died in 275AAC during an improbable flying accident, this politic of 'mobility over fixed defences' continued. His son Mace was nineteen years old and considered himself an accomplished starfighter pilot; this wasn't the kind of man who was going to modify his navy's funding and goals._

 _Yet there were lords who saw the problem menacing the Reach. These highborn understood that the defensive doctrine of their forces was evolving towards obsolescence. The deterioration of critical orbital forts and the refusal to replenish several ammunition stocks alarmed these Reach officers. They were going to find themselves in a very painful situation if an enemy came without warning. The most prominent noble of this faction was Lord Randyll Tarly, Master of the Horn Hill System, whose renown at this point mainly consisted in the defeat of several Dornish 'pirates' and Essossi corsairs._

 _Since House Tyrell officially was not interested in changing their rosy point of view, the reformists pursued their own path and financed what was going to be known as the Longbow Network. To explain it in a few sentences, a new type of orbital fort was constructed, one with about 40% more ammunition stores, cutting-edge fire control and capable of hiding twenty wings of starfighters into its massive bays. But the real threat of the Longbow Network lied elsewhere. Given sufficient warning, the commander of this imposing space station could deploy as many as thirty five great missile platforms outside its structure and fire them independently or at the same time. Each of those platforms would carry eighteen capital missiles, heavier and disposing a far greater range than those taking the dust in the Tyrell arsenals._

 _The calculus was not complicated to make. Thanks to its improved data-links and compartmentalisation, a Longbow fort was able to launch a salvo of six hundred and thirty missiles in an interval of two seconds. Against such firepower, any enemy not having a large number of capital warships in its battle-line was simply doomed. This was a really dangerous system, one likely to augment catastrophically the losses of the attackers each time they translated near an enemy planet._

 _And yet at the commission of its first model in 280AAC, the commands for the Longbow Network were extremely low. Archer Industries – which Lord Tarly was the main shareholder - received twenty orders in three years: four from House Florent, two from House Hunt, two from House Blackbar, two from House Serry, three from House Peake, one from House Estermont, one from House Norcross, one from House Dustin and of course four from House Tarly itself._

 _It was not an economic disaster, but it wasn't a success. The combined influence of the Rose Company, Arbor Enterprises and Oldtown Unlimited had locked down the rest of the market and the research and development for an improved Longbow Network – tentatively codenamed the Breaker-Bow – was stopped by 281AAC before it was out of the initial stages._

 _The War of the Usurper was not good for the Longbow Program. The Reach Sector wasn't attacked even once, Lord Tarly and Lord Florent died in action at the Trident and the opportunity from getting more demands outside the Reach decreased into nothingness. By the time the Ironborn followed Balon Greyjoy in his ill-timed rebellion, it was fair to assume few Reach Admirals remembered this project existed._

 _In a fair and logical world, the part of Operation Dalton which was hurled against the Shield sub-sector should have proved a priceless boon for Archer Industries and House Tarly. Reality was unpleasant however and political powerhouses did not fall just because they were in the wrong. The Tyrell-Redwyne-Hightower block had concentrated a power no lone House was able to dispute and furthermore the images of the Fall of Pyke were several levels higher in the spectacular. It seemed the Longbow Network and its associated programs were doomed to fade in the darkness like all the projects having not managed to catch the eyes of the deciders._

 _But while the Reachers disdained the program, other forces did not make the same mistake..._

From The Art of Defence by Tyanna Laevyr, 317AAC.

* * *

 **Lord Osbert Serry, 5.12.289AAC, Southshield System**

Seated on the flag bridge of his ship of the line the _White Rose_ , Osbert Serry did his best not to look anxious. For all his decades of service in the Reach Navy and the years he had inherited the Admiral title from his father, this was going to be the first spatial battle he fought. It didn't help his nerves he was in command of the fleet. It was true that if he won there, the glory would be all for him...but so would be death and eternal death if he lost against these murderous scums of Ironborn.

 _Calm yourself, Osbert. You have enough strength to wipe out these pirates three times over_.

Looking over the bay displaying the Southshield System in all its splendour, the Reach Lord felt his worries dissipate. Not counting his ship of the line and the four orbital forts, he had two battlecruisers, four heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, fourteen scout cruisers, one frigate and over two thousand starfighters. This was a powerful task force, enough power to destroy the forty-one Ironborn longships dirtying his system from their presence.

Assuming the battle was going to take place of course.

"The Ironborn are changing course again, my Lord." Informed him his Chief of Staff.

The Master of Southshield made a simple nod in acknowledgement. It had been eight hours the Ironborn had made their void translation in the system, but in this amount of time the reavers of Balon Greyjoy had made countless manoeuvres, so many in fact he was a bit surprised none of the mysterious 'black-matter' reactors had exploded under the strain.

But the reliability of the Ironborn longships would cease to be a factor in three or four hours. The reinforcements retained by Lord Lowther were on their way and the squadrons from House Redwyne should be not far behind. If the Ironborn commander didn't attack soon, he was going to find himself trapped between the hammer of Lord Paxter Redwyne and the anvil of the Southshield force. A scenario which could have only one outcome and it was not a Greyjoy victory.

A series of trills informed him of the new course on his tactical display. As his officers projected the consequences of the new development, their superior watched with a black eye the icons representing the twenty transports circling around the gas giant millions of kilometres away.

Osbert dearly would have liked to capture them intact...or recapture them since apparently fifteen of said merchantmen had once belonged to diverse Western and Reacher trade companies. But they were too far away and the pirates in command of these hulls would have largely enough time to make their void translation before his ship was in position to fire at them.

Standing from his white and red seat, he decided to stretch his legs a bit and walked to the Intelligence section of the bridge. Since the Ironborn were content exploding minor extraction sites of little value in the outer system, he could very well use the minutes to learn their characteristics.

"Have we gained more information on the enemy longships?"

"Not really, my Lord." Answered the young Captain who held the title in his staff of Chief of Intelligence. "Their black-matter emissions are perturbing our long-range sensors and we had little references on them before Lannisport."

"Fine, give me what you have."

The young man – a fifth cousin of his if he wasn't mistaken – lightened the icons represented on his display with five different colours.

"We have managed to differentiate five main types of longship in the Ironborn formation. We ignore for the moment if the reason lies with different Ironborn Houses being included in this fleet or several shipyards adapting the same blueprints in a different fashion."

This made sense. Well, as much as sense had a place in Ironborn culture anyway.

"Any idea who commands on the other side?"

"Given that the big longship has a kraken prow..." The Southshield officer sent a mocking look at the lone dark icon leading the Ironborn gathering. "I think we have to assume a Greyjoy is in command."

"I agree-"

"My Lord! They're changing their course! They're coming straight at us!"

Osbert Serry abandoned the Intelligence Section in a hurry and came back in front of the grand tactical display. His first cousin Albert - serving as his chief of staff for the duration of this crisis - was right. His opponent had clearly decided that the time of feints and subtlety was over. The forty longships and the super-longship were now charging at full military power in their direction.

"They've finally understood we aren't going to leave our positions for whatever trap they've prepared?"

"They have still some margin to disengage." Cautioned Rear-Admiral Albert Serry, reassuring the entire bridge by his calm and confidence. Osbert felt very grateful he had dismissed the complaints of the whiny lowborn that they weren't given a chance to serve in his staff or those of the other senior officers. Only blue-blooded men with proper connections had the status to be here at this historic moment.

"But yes, I think their commander has understood he has no choice but to come at us."

For the thirty-sixth time in eight hours, the Master of Southshield wondered what sort of idiot was commanding the other side. The arrival of the Ironborn had been anything but subtle. In these circumstances, an all-out attack was best launched immediately, not hours later! But no, whoever the Ironborn commander was, he had abandoned this initiative and destroyed minor stations and insignificant outposts. Perhaps the Greyjoy commander believed he would charge to the rescue all batteries blazing?

 _No, no one can't be that stupid. The value of Southshield, its orbital industry, the shipyards and the fuel facilities are a thousand times worth the third-rate facilities he has destroyed. Only Southshield matters if they want to take the System_.

The dark icons rushed like a malevolent storm on his tactical display and Osbert could only thank the Seven he had not taken his Deep Space warships in a long chase against the enemy. Even with the new reactors, impellers and the rest of the technology his alliance with House Tarly had procured, his ships were completely outmatched in raw speed.

"Defence Formation Grass 4." He ordered. The metal under his feet started to vibrate as the ship of the line soared from its orbital position. "Prepare Plan Shield Storm."

"Prepare Plan Shield Storm, yes my Lord!"

The Lord of House Serry eyes were unable to see it, but he had no doubt that all around the fortresses protecting his beloved world, over seventy Longbow platforms and several other old-fashioned long-range weapons were ready, awaiting the right combination to annihilate the murderers and the rapists having the temerity to ravage the stars.

"They have reached the four hundred and thirty hundred thousand kilometres mark, my Lord." Informed him his second cousin at the Astrogation post.

According to the time he had passed at the Highgarden Academy, he should tell a few words able to exalt his subordinates but now that battle was joined, Osbert's inspiration was kind of stuck. No grand expression to awe his children and grand-children, and in the end the words which left his mouth were not going to be commented by the new generation of strategists and tacticians.

"Very well, you can open fire."

* * *

 **Maron Greyjoy, 5.12.289AAC, Southshield System**

"These pathetic greenlanders have forgotten that their place in this galaxy is at our feet, begging for their worthless lives! They believe their fortresses and the temple-ships they build for their False Gods will save them!"

The cadet son of King Balon Greyjoy stopped just three seconds, the time to regain enough respiration before continuing his pre-battle encouragement. Thanks to the miracle of technology, every Ironborn aboard the fleet who had still one ear was listening to him declaiming the coming rebirth of the Iron Empire.

"They are wrong! Today the Shield which protects Highgarden will be shattered! The weapons of the Reach will fall silent as their knights will embrace the void! This entire system will belong to us and we will use it to build fleets in the name of the Void God!"

The single mention of their deity transformed the warriors on the midnight blue-decorated bridge of the _Kraken of Darkness_ into a crowd of bloodthirsty reavers. The wait had been long and the refusal of the Southshield fleet to leave the planet's orbit had frayed the nerves. The sworn vibro-axes of House Greyjoy wanted blood. They desired with all their hearts a new Lannisport.

"Their children will become our thralls! Their women will implore us to take them as salt wives! When the dragon vermin will run with their tails between their legs and their wrecks will burn into the atmosphere, they will know the name of their king!"

The noise made by the men of the Iron Sector went from 'loud' to 'unbearable'. To the point the few officers who hadn't ceded to the bloodthirsty ambiance were forced to scream with the full capacity of their lungs to make themselves listened to.

"BALON!"

"BALON!"

"FOR THE IRON KING AND THE OLD WAY!"

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

"TAKE US IN!" Roared Maron Greyjoy. "IT'S TIME FOR THE GREENLANDERS TO DIE!"

The black flashes and fumes surrounding the super-longship turned darker as the acceleration of the _Kraken of Darkness_ skyrocketed. Behind it the rest of the Ironborn fleet followed, their batteries prepared to unleash the fury of the Void God and restore the Misty Sector to its legitimate owners. This was what they lived for: carnage and war!

The distance closed and as the two fleets were separated by less than half a million kilometres Maron began to wonder which target was the more worthy of being disintegrated first. Should he begin with the ship of the line, the two big forts or the smaller fishes?

"The enemy has fired its missiles, Commander." Informed a Lieutenant in the Tactical section wearing the Harlaw colours. "Number estimated at...TWO THOUSAND MISSILES?"

Maron's mind for a moment thought the man had made a mistake. The weak greenlanders had simply not the guns to launch that many missiles at once. Between their forts and their warships, the computers had calculated that at worst they were going to face volleys of roughly seven or eight hundred missiles...

"WHAT?"

"This must be an error!"

"Are you sure that-"

But as the tactical displays all over the bridge updates to reveal the disaster, there could be no mistake anymore. A storm of flashing red icons was nearing his fleet at near-light's speed. No, not a storm. It was a maelstrom of violence, and the Ironborn were its target.

"One thousand nine hundred and eighty-four missiles incoming! Flight time: eight minutes and two seconds!"

The new announcement had a switch-effect on his crew and Maron. Before, there had been simply astonishment; after it was panic and incomprehension. They had the anti-missiles to counter up to nine hundred inbound nuclear projectiles; two thousand was way over any pessimistic scenario they had planned for.

"Stand by missile defence!" Shouted the Harlaw Lieutenant.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Screamed back the Wynch nominally in charge of this section. "We must-"

"Captain! Captain! New void translations below the ecliptic!""

"Stand by missile defence! Fire plan defence Ironside!"

New enemies icons appeared all over the system and the son of Balon Greyjoy was overwhelmed during a few seconds by the magnitude of the disaster which was about to engulf his command. Trying to regain the initiative, he started to shout his orders.

"Target the forts. It must be them which control these waves of missiles."

"By your command, Lord Maron!"

"Fire."

Four hundred and thirty missiles armed with the most powerful black-matter warheads available to the Iron Navy began to burn in the void.

"Disengage from our course on a seven-one-four bearing. Tell the transports they must go back to Point Void Four. If we aren't back in five standard hours, they must go back reunite with the Lord Captain!"

"Yes, Lord Maron!"

The time for fine tactics was past. The young Greyjoy tried to remember the past tactics of his father, but never had King Balon faced such a daunting situation. Then there was no time at all. The longships began to launch their anti-missiles in violent saccades. To his disappointment, the coordination was well below the last fleet exercises. The entire Farwynd squadron was launching on its own and the Humble's fire-control was so bad they might have well imitated the lunatics of the Sealskin's Star.

When the small wave intercepted the hurricane, the Ironborn were completely outclassed. If the consoles and estimates could be trusted, they had stopped a little less than two hundred missiles.

"Do we have time for a second wave of anti-missiles?"

Which meant a bit less than one thousand and eight hundred were on their way.

"Not without cutting our own wave."

For one second, Maron contemplated doing it...before renouncing. This way they were going to inflict some damage on the bastards. Not that they were going to be here to see it. As the Reach ship-killers flight closed under one hundred thousand kilometres, their huge size and the explosive package they undoubtedly transported were revealed in their awful glory.

 _This is going to hurt_.

Some longships faster than the others – or with captains who had disregarded his previous orders and released their control over the missiles – managed to launch five or six new counter-missiles but it was not enough.

The apocalyptic wave of missiles rushed into their formation with all the subtlety of a hellgun wielded by a Lord in Terminator armour. One second the Ironborn formation was firing its laser-point defences, the next the aggressors were there.

It happened simply too fast. The _Skinchanger_ , the _Fierce Reaver_ , the _Axe-Dance_ , the _Blackest Sunset_ , the _Drakkar_ and the _Blood King_ vanished in monumental explosions of dark light.

The _Bloody Scythe_ was cut in half as the _Kraken of Darkness_ was shaken by a powerful explosion which sent half of the bridge's crew on the ground. The _Reaper of the Stepstones_ did not explode but the status of its hull went beyond bad as four major breaches shredded the alloys and ejected air, men and ammunition into space.

Second by second the longships were torn apart by a fire they had never been conceived to endure. The _Kraken of Darkness_ took two new hits destroying more or less every armament on the lower decks, opening dozens of compartments to the void. But Maron's flagship was the lucky one. It was one of the warships of the Iron Fleet, built to endure the fires of battle and massacre the greenlanders cruisers. The longships fared much worse.

The _Dark Noose_ was reduced to orbital debris and its consort the _White Noose_ shared its fate. The _Prince of Reavers_ , his first command, had disappeared forever in a black-matter explosion without a single escape pod.

As the explosions progressively ceased Maron Greyjoy felt for the first time of his life true despair. A minute ago, he had a fleet. Now he had the ruins of one.

The _Raging Behemoth_ , the _Void Arrow_ , the _Bleeding Titan_ , the _Mighty Reaver_ , the _Red Beard_ , the Old _Way_ , the _Time of Plunder_...they were all dead or agonising.

"Second wave of missiles incoming." Morosely reported the Tactical officer. "Estimate of seven hundred and six missiles. Time of impact: eight minutes and eighteen seconds."

A global look at the tactical display sundered his last hopes. A couple of transports were spiralling out of control after the punishment they had received from an entire squadron of battlecruisers. The rest were silent forever, having joined the Void God for eternity.

The Ironborn wave of missiles had not even scratched the paint of their enemy. The gunners had been too busy to die to properly adjust the attack profiles and he had badly underestimated how many of their cursed counter-batteries they could put on these fortresses.

 _None of the reports I read were speaking about this kind of firepower_...

The new wave of red icons was as brilliant as the first. Smaller, but the Iron squadrons had been completely gutted. The _Kraken of the Darkness_ alone had survived with its propulsion and something resembling a coherent crew – though with how many people were screaming and the quantity of alarms blazing, this was extremely relative. Five or six longships had kept enough integrity to look like a hull and not a space hulk but the dozens of escape pods spreading thorough the system showed they had taken a terrible battering.

This was the end. Maron stood from his command seat to address a last message. His father...the King would understand.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."

The stars were so bright illuminated by these explosions. Next to them the entire prow of a longship was propelled into oblivion. A loud and piercing sound resonated as the missiles struck the battered war longship and Maron turned his head behind him to see half of his bridge be torn apart in a mix of metal, gore and electricity.

"We do not-"

He never finished the sentence.

* * *

 _The Ironborn attack on the four systems of the Shield sub-sector was clearly launched with too few hulls to have a chance of defeating their opposition, never mind holding the planets when the unavoidable Reach counter-attack started. If the one-sided massacre of Southshield could be attributed to bad luck and the unanticipated presence of the Longbow forts, the attacks on Greenshield and Oakenshield had not these excuses to hide behind..._

From The Fall of the Iron Sector, published in 298AAC by Master Yandel.

" _I think we have all received the confirmation we need to conclude ramming is not an acceptable tactic_." Lord Paxter Redwyne, 289AAC.

 **Rodrik Greyjoy, 5.12.289AAC, Oakenshield System**

The _Kraken of Blood_ roared in anger, concentrating its remaining firepower on the lone Reach battlecruiser. At this distance there was no way the heavy batteries could miss. Dark lances tore apart the durasteel, shredding the fragile protections separating the greenlanders from the void. Air and water were expulsed in unimaginable quantities as the compartments and the weapons of the warship suffered untold damage. Decks burst in flames, spires collapsed and debris bigger than a super-heavy tank got detached from the structure. Lightning-like sparks resonated across the length, generating even more damage as the energy conduits were broken in ways no engineer could repair. From prow to stern, the man-made starship began to disintegrate.

But the battlecruiser was not dying quietly. Two heavy plasma cannons locked themselves on Rodrik's flagship and if the limited distance meant they could be employed with excruciating effect. Faster than the human eye could blink, two rays emerged from the doomed starship to strike the Ironborn flagship with the force of a gigantic hammer.

For a second or two, the world rolled like there was no tomorrow. Fortunately, reality and the power still coursing in the machinery allowed the warship to restore normal gravity and a sense of what was up and down.

"Tubes 5 and 8 destroyed. Three new compartments opened to the void. Casualties...heavy."

The voice of the officer he had ordered to cope with the endless series of destructions was so blank the Heir of House Greyjoy knew he had gone in shock long ago.

"Medical bay in flame." Added his second, directing the rescue effort. "Redirecting the wounded to the resting room of the upper levels."

"Reach reinforcements translating out of the void." Warned the man left in charge of the tactical section since his two leaders were trying to bring back the prow's weaponry. "Two ships of the line and three battlecruisers plus escorts."

"The other task force is launching their starfighters. I estimate they have brought between five and six hundred of them.

Despite how bad the day had been for his ship and the rest of his fleet, Rodrik lips smirked as he watched his bloody tactical display. Someone on the other side had screwed up in a major fashion. The position where they had appeared was too far to do anything...except perhaps rescue their greenlanders friends trapped in escape pods.

"Prepare for void translation." Ordered Rodrik before coughing as the stench of burnt consoles arrived to his mouth. Behind and on his right, five reavers were throwing carbon foam over the ruined stations. Two other men were evacuating the corpses to the closest void hatchet. "The transports are saved and we have no reason to remain in this System."

"Yes, Lord. If we maintain our acceleration, void translation in five minutes and twenty-two seconds."

This was far longer than he wanted to wait in this system but it would have to do. The twelve warships he had left were not going to augment sensibly their speed in the next minutes. Their hulls might not be solid to resist the acceleration effort. A void translation was already a chancy proposition...one they would have to take if they didn't want their participation in this war to end brutally.

"The _Helm-Cleaver_ says their impellers can't handle the stain, my Lord." The communication officer's expression was fixed in a horrible grimace. "Their compensators can't handle full power anymore and their reactors are dangerously unstable."

The eldest son of King Greyjoy was about to order the abandonment of the _Helm-Cleaver_ when the icon of the longship disappeared from the screens. Moments later, a gigantic explosion illuminated the Oakenshield System. Thankfully they had adopted a very loose formation in the last minutes and no other longship was taken away.

Rodrik felt his large fist tightened around the arms of his command seat. Another longship was gone and with it over one thousand good Ironborn.

"What about the other greenlanders squadrons? Can they catch up with us before we translate out?"

"No, Lord. The Oakenshield warships are pursuing us, but their ship of the line's velocity is so low they will leave their maximum engagement range in fifteen seconds."

"And they've used all their ammunition I think." Intervened a Lieutenant, taking his time to put a bandage on a deep gash on his left arm.

That was a good point now that he thought about it. The ships of House Hewett had been mainly heavy cruisers and scout cruisers with a pair of battlecruisers and a ship of the line. Now with their biggest ship good for the scrap yard and one battlecruiser gone, it was the scout cruisers and the heavy cruisers which had survived the battle which had to lead the charge...and launching fifteen salvoes of missiles must not have been kind to their logistics.

"The Redwyne and Tyrell ships are millions of kilometres away."

"That leaves the other battlecruiser." Reminded him his counterpart of the tactical section.

"Ha! You think he's going to come back after the beating of the last pass?" Evidently it was thought as a rhetorical question because the other Ironborn didn't allow the time for an answer. "He can hurt us but if comes back for another attack we are going to send him to the Void God!"

For all answer a finger was pointed to the tactical display where the enemy battlecruiser was closing distance again.

"This is madness." Someone whispered. "He can't honestly believe he will able to win!"

If the battlecruiser had been undamaged and the longships were left in a crippled state, it would have already been difficult for the sept-ship; as long as the longships could manoeuvre, they could disperse and force their opponent to divide their fire while they would fire at the same target over and over.

The battlecruiser was not intact though. The spires over the upper decks were destroyed or ejecting air in space. The golden figures which had decorated the lateral sides were incinerated or showing deep scars. The golden rose figure on the prow had been pulverised with only half a head and the feet reminding the statue had once existed. Every second on the sensors small explosions were recorded, clear sign the salvage and rescue parties had not regained the control of their warship. More debris was thrown out as it increased its acceleration, generating a spectacular trail of durasteel and other ship parts behind it. Battlecruisers were tough but the state of this one meant it would need several months in reparation.

Rodrik didn't understand it. The battle was over, the Ironborn fleet was retreating. The greenlander had no need to come back for another round. Yes, he was probably going to take one or two longships in death with him. No, it wouldn't change anything. The Iron Fleet hadn't been earmarked for this part of Operation Dalton and even if the four assaults of today failed, the war would continue. Whether the _Kraken of Blood_ and its escorts survived was immaterial in this instance.

"Charge whatever missile tube which can still fire." The Iron King's son commanded. "If this stupid greenlander think he can destroy us, let's prove him wrong."

All over the ameliorated longship, the hundreds of reavers not busy repairing the damage, sealing the destroyed compartments and saving the maximum of lives of the trapped sailors answered the call. Six tubes were charged with ship-killers missiles and the ten other longships prepared their own salvoes.

In a straight missile match, the wreck which had once been a blue, green and gold warship stood absolutely no chance. But then as his new course implicated, it was not the enemy's captain intention.

"Lord, err...is he intending to ram us?"

Rodrik grunted as the rapid estimates in front of him answered positively. He would not have believed a greenlander could be so idiotic...and suicidal. After all more or less every person in the known galaxy who had a minimum of spatial knowledge knew ramming another warship did not work. Despite what the holo-series _Fire Wings_ and _Galactic Lords_ told to the public, slamming a starship into another was extremely difficult when the two were moving at speeds being measured in fractions of light's speed. Second point and unlike what the propagandists sold to the public sometimes, ramming was not a tactic which left one ship intact and the other destroyed. Given the masses and the acceleration involved, no one survived a ramming. Since a warship cost on average several billions dragons of investment, no navy worth the name had ever considered ramming a valid strategy.

"If he does, he deserves what is going to happen to him. Fire at will."

The destruction command was repeated on every bridge and thirty-four missiles rushed to finish the battlecruiser before it penetrated further in their engagement envelope.

The Reach warship only answered by launching two missiles and two counter-missiles; Rodrik thought about asking if there was someone alive and sane aboard this hulk. The battlecruiser was now presenting only its prow to the enemy, and the trajectories left no doubt the madman at the helm firmly intended to ram the _Kraken of Blood_.

Thanks the Void God he wasn't going to have the chance.

The attack arcs of the black-matter missiles were anything but linear. And they were not the types of ordnance an intelligent captain ignored altogether either. Like nuclear warheads, direct hits tended to have very unpleasant effects.

The first projectiles to strike true were the ones coming from the _Eternal Reaver_. By pure chance, one of these missiles struck on a section where the laser defences had already been dismantled and the shielding was failing. Megatons of black energy coalesced and discharged their fury in less than a second. The warships guns, the crew quarters and every compartment one could find in these central sections were vented out of the ship, left to die in the obscurity between the planets. The damage had been horrendous and it was only one missile. Thirty-one others had struck true.

By a peculiar action of the Void God, neither the fusion reactors of their opponent nor the rest of the rest of the ship's critical machinery exploded. But then there were other methods to destroy a warship. With the overwhelming majority of the central compartment crippled, opened to the void or in flames, the hull was on the edge of breaking. Most of the tortured hull was surrounded by an intense corona of fire and debris.

When the next salvo hit, the battlecruiser didn't explode. It was just cut in half. Hurrahs and cheers mounted on the _Kraken of Blood_ 's bridge, as their enemy suicidal charge ended in a calamitous manner. Where before there had been one ship, two big parts floated in the void as its power sources flickered and died. As they regarded the disintegration of the battlecruiser, escape pods started to fly away from it in numbers.

"Cease fire." Rodrik ordered with a deep sense of satisfaction. If there was a chance the enemy captain was still breathing, the Heir of House Greyjoy wanted him to remain alive if only for Highgarden to judge him for this moronic tactic. Boarding a warship was something all aspiring Ironborn tried to do one day or the other; ramming one was a mark of failure and the anonymous Reacher was going to acknowledge it before the end.

"The starfighters?" Asked Rodrik, reporting his attention to the global space battlefield. As much as the destruction of the last warship had been satisfying, it was a mere sideshow compared to the numbers of warships racing on their heels.

"They're still fourteen minutes away from missile's range." Answered the third man today to take his second's duties.

"Then by the hate of the Storm God let's get the Hell away from here."

"Void translation in 3...2...1...translation!" Barked the operator.

 _Now I just have to worry how my father is going to take this defeat_ , thought Rodrik Greyjoy. If the Void God was good, Maron would have met the same difficulties he did and the repercussions over his powerbase would limit themselves to a few reprimands.

 _But I lost more longships in a day that we lost in the entire Lannisport campaign_...

* * *

" _The Lannisters had the disaster of the Twins. The Tyrells have the fiasco of Greyshield_." Attributed to Lord Eddard Stark, 290AAC.

" _The Battle of Greyshield is so famous these days you would almost believe the Ironborn attacked three Systems and not four_." Lord Wyman Manderly, 298AAC.

 **Lord Paxter Redwyne, 6.12.289AAC, Greyshield System**

Observed from the bay of a starship like this, the Greyshield System didn't look that bad. The yellow star providing warmth and light to the rest of the System like it had always done for the last thousand years, irrespective of the mortals settling in the vicinity. The two asteroid belts continued their eternal dance of collisions and frictions like they had done for the last millennia. The three gas giants continued to rotate around the star, trajectories which had had to be repeated millions of times since the galaxy came into existence.

It was a pity none of their moons were inhabitable but no lord or sovereign had found the funds and the means to make these nine ice balls inhabitable for human life. Some mining operations had been done during the reign of the Conciliator but the men with the big purses had concluded the exploitation of the asteroids was far more profitable.

The three telluric planets had also remarkable colours...a pity only one had an atmosphere. The first was grey and blue, which might be the reason the Reachers living on it called it Grey Haven. The two others, respectively reddish and light green, were places no one able of breathing wanted to set the foot on.

From this distance on the outer edges of a system, things looked really peaceful and beautiful. Until you turned the head and watched the ruins of what had been a monitoring station built by House Grimm. At least, that was what the officers of Greyshield he had been in contact with had proclaimed. As the description 'cloud of rubble' was apt for what remained of station X21HR8-9, he had really no choice but to take them at their word.

From the bridge of his flagship the _Arbor Queen_ , Admiral of the Reach Paxter Redwyne contemplated the debris of a station which had been explicitly built to prevent an Ironborn assault –or any enemy assault from the Sunset Void from that matter. A task the now murdered men working aboard X21HR8-9 had utterly failed. There had been no emission of any kind to warn Greyshield of the attack coming. Some of the messages he had received from Grey Haven in the last hours placed this issue on bad luck and an ill-timed maintenance schedule. Paxter was more inclined to think incompetence and different priorities of funding had had their role to play.

One surveillance station failing to report before coming under fire was 'bad luck'. Eight stations lost – so far because there were three more left to properly investigate – was a number revealing really awful things about the state of preparation existing in the Greyshield System.

 _Thank the Seven only one of the four Ironborn commanders was smart enough to exploit it_.

The second highest-ranking Westerosi Admiral was well-aware no good commander was supposed to rely on enemy stupidity to triumph over his enemies. But truth was truth, however uncomfortable it was. Water was wet. A human could not live in the void without a spacesuit. Three of the four assaults on the Shield sub-sector had been repulsed because the Ironborn commanders had behaved even more stupidly than their Reach opponents.

Three of out four assaults had been repulsed with minor damage to the existing orbital infrastructure.

Greyshield was the exception to the rule.

"Admiral, General Blackbar has sent us the latest update on the Greyshield squadron and the orbital defences."

The voice of the third cousin serving as his flag lieutenant stopped his moment of solitude.

"Is there anything left to save?"

"No, Admiral. There isn't one of the void-capable starships which can be recovered in less than a year." The scowl on the young man's face was not dissimulated. "The preliminary reports all state building new warships will be quicker and less expensive."

"How many ships have we lost? The real losses, not the sad excuses I hear from Lord Grimm."

In these last hours, the Lord of the Arbor had wished more than once the Ironborn had killed Guthor Grimm. Too bad the Stranger was not generous and the Lord of Greyshield had stayed in his private fortress when his ships were shot like they were beginners.

 _At least he won't have any excuse not to go to Lord Chester's marriage with his planet indefensible_...

This was a true punishment if there ever was one. Paxter had had the bad luck to meet Selyse Florent once, and while facial surgery had made her face somewhat acceptable – if you stayed a million kilometres away – her nerve-wracking behaviour wasn't.

"One ship of the line, two battlecruisers, four heavy cruisers, one light cruiser, fifteen scout cruisers, one frigate and close to a thousand and five hundred starfighters were lost or crippled. They have destroyed one Ironborn longship and may have damaged one or two more in return."

The Lord of the Arbor did close his eyes and exhaled a loud sigh. All these void-capable ships lost in a single day...and without inflicting more than pathetic losses against their enemy. Of course proportionally the Ironborn had suffered heavier casualties with the complete annihilation of the force they sent against Southshield.

But Paxter didn't want ten Reachers to die for each Ironborn life snuffed out - the destruction of one longship wasn't more than a meagre consolation anyway. The four systems of the Shield sub-sector had been specifically build-up to resist Ironborn assaults. The reavers and corsairs fleet plaguing the void were the enemies they were supposed to guard against. One epic failure like this was a breach threatening vital planets. The Shield had been shattered and would send a message of weakness to the rest of Westeros and maybe Essos. It couldn't be allowed to happen again.

And he didn't like the messages delivered by the young highborn his Lord Paramount was using to communicate his instructions. The fact the four battles fought yesterday had bled considerably the Greyjoy strength was all Mace Tyrell cared about. The point the Reach Navy had lost over fifteen thousand personnel at Greyshield alone was virtually ignored. The little issue of Lord Serry deploying the new Tarly defensive system and obtaining better results than anything the three other Shield lords had achieved was disastrous for military contracts and the propaganda they relied upon. Doubtlessly he going to pass a lot of white nights in the next month to make a solid counter-campaign of advertisement and maybe publish a new spatial holo-series. Public opinion was short after all, and the widow of Randyll Tarly had not the stature to oppose him. People would forget Archer Enterprises and their toys. Houses Tarly and Florent would need to be reminded their place in the Reach nobility.

None of the above would have been necessary if Guthor Grimm had done his duty and maintained a correct surveillance like the last hundred messages pressed him to do.

"I suppose we will have to tow the damaged ships to the Lowther scrap yards, then."

"We could always dismantle them here, Admiral. House Grimm is going to need a lot of resources for the reconstruction."

His superior winced. Realising the widespread destruction of the Greyshield spatial infrastructure, Paxter had acknowledged hours ago he had no magical plan to agitate in front of the bards and the rest of the holo-news groups.

Lord Meldred Merlyn –according to the prisoners made in the other Shield Systems, it was him who had led the assault on Greyshield – had been thoroughly efficient in his destruction efforts. The shipyards, the foundries, the orbital recyclers, the asteroid mining industry, the communication satellites, the fuel facilities...everything which had been orbiting Grey Haven and could represent a boon for the war effort had been shot, blown up, reduced to cinders, pulverised and burnt.

Once they had ravaged the naval squadron supposed to defend these very actions in a sneak attack, the Ironborn had given five minutes to the civilians and the rest of the navy men to evacuate by escape pod before sending to the Seven Hells billions dragons of infrastructure. Unlike Rodrik and Maron Greyjoy, the Merlyn reaver had apparently never thought they were going to hold the Shield sub-sector with so few hulls and had worked in consequence. Five days ago, Greyshield had been a fourth-class System economically with a population of two hundred and eighty million – a planet not particularly fit for pleasant resorts and the possibility of Sunset pirates had always limited mass settlement. Today it was an orbital desert.

"Can I recommend the court-martial of Lord Grimm for this impressive defeat?"

The Lieutenant looked like his impeccable green and gold uniform was suddenly very itchy and uncomfortable.

"Err...Admiral...Lord Grimm put all the blame on his first cousin..."

The Admiral of the Reach had the powerful envy to spit on Guthor's face. The Lord of Greyshield should praise the Father and the rest of the Seven he was far from the _Arbor Queen_.

"Who is conveniently dead and unable to answer any question. How...practical." The Master of the Redwyne Navy could not stop the dark humour in his next words. "I suppose the same is true for Lord Hewett and his nephew Jon?"

"The salvage teams are doing what they can Admiral, but there's not much left of Captain Hewett's battlecruiser. All his bridge has been melted down and it's entirely possible we have lost all the data. Black boxes are supposed to be near indestructible, but when we have to search them over hundreds of thousands kilometres among millions of ship parts..."

"Formidable." Paxter did not hide his bitterness. It was possible it had all been the act of a bloodthirsty captain wishing to avenge his brother's death...but it was particularly telling Lord Humfrey Hewett could not remember where he had recorded his last holo-conversations. Normally, senior captains of the Reach Navy did not become suicidal in a matter of hours - and when they did their crew did their best to stop them from committing a folly. "Really formidable."

As a proud Reach nobleman he was really supportive of the laws restricting the promotions to flag rank for the Noble and Knightly Houses. Smallfolk had proven time and time again they were unable to see over their dirty noses and should not be involved when something really important was at stake. But the way some of the Shield Houses had manoeuvred and fought...by the Holy Light of the Crone what sort of tactics had they learned at Highgarden?

Originally the deployment of his best squadrons to these four Systems had been simple insurance if the Iron Fleet attacked in force. Paxter had sold the deployment to Lord Leyton Hightower and the other important Lords as a safety measure, nothing to worry about. The Shield Systems were heavily fortified, the reavers who attacked there were going to take a pounding and flee for their lives minutes after their void translation in-system. It gave his squadrons some training before joining with the Royal Fleet. He had never imagined two of the four Ironborn raids would have likely succeeded without his warships intervention. And that one had just arrived in time to prevent an ignominious surrender of Grey Haven.

Because yes Lord Grimm had told him he would have fought to the death but Paxter was taking it with a grain of salt. You did not boast like the Master of Greyshield did when your mind was at peace on the subject.

"Prepare a raven-drone for High Admiral Velaryon. I want him to read it as soon as he arrives to the Arbor."

"Yes, Admiral. What do you want me to write?"

 _Three of the Shield Lords are morons who can't tell their right hand from their left. I can't leave them alone for the moment lest they find a manner to enter a ramming contest with the Ironborn_.

Damn. He couldn't tell the Master of Ships and his King that! Or rather he could and the next morning he would be thrown out from his fleet command. No, he would need to find something else. Something credible.

"Our counter-attack against the Ironborn is going to be...delayed..."

* * *

 _Once again as the Greyjoy Rebellion engulfed the Sunset Void in flames, the great and famous swords of the Kingsguard marched to war to the side of their King. When Balon Greyjoy forsook his oaths, the Order of the White Sword was including seven great warriors whose skill with the blade and the laser guns was almost legendary. These were:_

 _Lord Gerold Hightower the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and its oldest member._

 _Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, loyal companion of King Rhaegar during the dark hours of the Usurper's Rebellion._

 _Ser Oswell Whent the White Bat, known and remembered for his dark humour._

 _Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold, who had put a bloody end to the Blackfyre treacherous line and led to victory the Targaryen forces in the Battle of the Trident._

 _Ser Jaime Lannister the White Lion, recognised as one of the most skilled warriors of his generation._

 _Ser Rufus Staunton, the Crimson Wing, loyal and prompt to attack._

 _Ser Buford Bulwer the Knight of Death, famous and infamous in equal measure for his kill-count in duels._

 _In the invasion of the Iron Sector, these seven men would prove once again their devotion to their King was absolutely without limits..._

A Compendium of the Kingsguard by Maester Victor, 297AAC.

 **Jaime Lannister, 29.12.289AAC, Casterly Rock System**

When the battlecruiser _White Paw_ emerged from its last stellar jump, Jaime Lannister could not help but sigh in relief at the familiar sight of Casterly Rock. After days of unending travel, he was finally home.

How many times had it been since he saw the ancestral home of House Lannister, its massive orbital fortifications and the unending forges where half of the Sector's industry was produced night and day? Six no, seven years?

It had felt longer. Maybe it was the boredom speaking in him, but an eternity had passed for him since he had left the Rock to join the Kingsguard. He had missed his uncles, his aunt and his father. He missed Tyrion and Cersei – though he knew the latter wouldn't be pleased to be included in the same sentence with his very little brother. Holo-messages were poor substitutes for proper conversations, especially when the simplest precautions forced him not to reveal anything of consequence. And with the King sending him across the River and the Storm Sectors in search of hypothetical traitors and people in violation of the realm's laws, even holo-messages were outdated long before he opened them. The royal networks needed a precise destination address to find the intended recipient, after all.

"We will have an orbit cleared for us in five hours, Jaime." Affirmed his second Vion, a Westerner like him. Despite being not usually very generous in smiles and other proofs of joy, the man was widely participating in the good mood aboard the _White Paw_. After over six months of inspection, long patrols and annoying duties in the vicinity of House Errol's domain, a visit at Casterly Rock was a gift of the Seven themselves. Whatever the nature of the missions waiting for them in this new war, the official recall was bringing them back home. Even the Crowlander part of the crew – one third of their total complement - was appreciating the idea of breathing on a real planet, meeting some women in order to relieve certain natural urges, receiving fresh news from their families during their permissions and generally doing things which had nothing to do with their military duties.

"Good. Warn me when we will have passed all the security protocols, I will be training in the arms room."

Unlike the hundred crewmen gathering on the bays of the warship, Jaime didn't intend to spend hours watching the red planet and its surroundings. In his childhood he had done so dozens of times – a fact which had irked his father to no end as he didn't respect the niceties of protocol and other diplomatic subtleties. From what the sensors had revealed, the Casterly Rock System hadn't changed. There was a lot more warships, defence systems and military installations ready to fire if a poor watch officer made the wrong kind of move, but the Rock stayed the Rock. It was on a war footing as no one wanted a second Lannisport but the state of readiness didn't change its nature. It had endured over ten thousand years of tumultuous victory and Jaime felt sure it would endure ten thousand more.

There were far more pleasant stellar phenomena to look at, by the way. With its gargantuan industries, its endless series of spatial and ground forts, the platforms supporting missiles, lasers batteries and plasma bombs, the Rock was a super-sized hub of war machines and the logistics which went with it, not a tourist destination. The Lannister private halls were eye-catching, but they were underground below dozens of fortified bunkers and only accessible to the Westerlands nobility. No, Casterly Rock was a place where one came for finance, politics, trade or war issues; never for frivolous reasons.

All of this could have been his, he knew as he opened with his pass-code the arms room and noted the absence of any potential opponent to train with. But he had chosen the Kingsguard and love over his inheritance.

After a few seconds of selecting a training vibro-sword, he admitted in a light whisper to himself he had only done it for love. Being one of the seven greatest knights of the realm was a nice bonus. No one told you there were other things to do beside sparring and perfecting your capabilities. You had your own battlecruiser. Guarding the King and defending him against the enemies of the realm would mean his name would be remembered for centuries.

The problem was...he wasn't sure anymore he had made the correct choice. He still loved Cersei. How could he not? She was his other half, his lioness, the keeper of his heart.

I _love her but I can't touch her. Seven Hells, I can't see her_!

No, he couldn't think like this. Holding the vibro-sword in his best hand, the son of Lord Tywin commenced a long series of feints, strikes and counter-strikes. The opponents were only holographic projections and the difficulty was limited – one of the laziest members of his crew must have set the lower setting when he had his back turn – but he wasn't trying to beat his own scores today. Simply clearing his mind would suffice.

But as sweat started to appear on his arms, his head and his chest, Jaime was forced to admit it didn't work. The sweet visage of his twin haunted him. Would he see her face to face again? According to the last news he had managed to receive from his sources at the capital, his sister was in the Maidenvault, a prisoner in all but name. After what had happened to Princess Elia during the war, this was not an encouraging sign at all.

One last holographic opponent disintegrated, and Jaime stopped the training sequence. A quick look at his score told him he had ranked fourth ex-aequo with himself. But then he did have the ten best scores; he wouldn't jump in joy at this one.

 _I must have crushed all the best scores of the one hundred and thirty war simulations in the last year._

His friends in the Western Sector always sent him new ones at irregular intervals along with new blades and youngsters to squire, but a continuous life of practise ensured these innovations were mastered in a matter of days and the newly knighted nobles left after he taught them to be brave, to serve loyally his father and all of the duties a bannersman of House Lannister must attend.

Leaving his training vibro-sword aside –his last Myre squire would clean and inspect it later – Jaime left the arms room and found his way to the showers at the end of the corridor. A long moment under hot water was going to be relaxing.

 _And maybe it will give me some ideas to convince the King not to send me back to these endless patrols once the war is over_.

Five minutes later – they were aboard a military warship, long showers were a luxury beyond measure – his mind was still working it. For the moment his main plan was to kill tens of thousands of Ironborn. Perhaps then the bloody court would recognise him as his own man?

 _What are the chances of that_? Laughed a little voice in his head.

Frustrated, the White Lion threw his towel at the other end of the lockers before taking a second one in his hands to dry himself. It didn't matter what he did in his Kingsguard duties, he was always regarded with mockery, distrust, defiance or scorn. Aerys, damn his black soul to the Seven Hells, had used him as a hostage to guarantee his father's cooperation. Rhaegar, damn his crazy soul to the Seven Hells too, was using him as his errant boy to make sure the Stormlanders and the Riverlanders didn't store weapons behind his back for an eventual next rebellion.

 _Like a single ship was enough to watch over them. One or two fleets would be far more appropriate_.

At first he had thought Rhaegar was aware of his relation with Cersei but it didn't match. Between her marriage and his unofficial exile in 284AAC he had not managed to sleep with her once. How could he with the oh-so loyal Barristan Selmy guarding her at all times? As for the former Crown Prince discovering his role in the disappearance of his daughter from the Red Keep...well, if Rhaegar was aware of it, he wouldn't be affected to the more boring tasks imaginable. He would be a dead Kingsguard.

No, it was more likely Cersei had begun to see Rhaegar for what it was and the King of Westeros had though to put light-years between the white knight the most susceptible to eviscerate him. Because if his lovely sister demanded him to kill Rhaegar, Jaime wouldn't hesitate a lot before taking the closest weapon and ending the life of Aerys' prodigal son.

One part of him, the young man idolising the Kingsguard, would have been horrified by his nonchalance. But this teenager had died in the long wait at the capital as Aerys burned noble after noble in his pyres or the awful gladiatorial massacres. How could he think justice and defending the weak were worth fighting for when Arthur Dayne had enough innocent blood on his hands to damn him a hundred times over?

 _Fire and Blood. Truly the Targaryens deserved their House's words in the Usurper's Rebellion_.

The exiled Kingsguard marched back to his quarters, saluting on his way the few spacemen and assault soldiers he met. Aboard a vessel like the _White Paw_ , everyone knew everyone and the overwhelming majority of the crew had accompanied him during the last six years. Their enthusiasm to visit the Rock allowed him to return sincere smiles. Yes, politics and insane Targaryen could wait another day. The Royal authorities had made clear he wasn't wanted for the duties of the Kingsguard anymore; he wasn't able to send them holo-videos begging him to take him back. The exception was a message from Cersei of course.

 _The things I do for love_.

Of course he had entered his quarters and was one meter from his bed when his personal comm sounded in the theme music of _The Return of the Lion_ , Western space-opera holo-series by excellence. The voice of the Junior Rock Officer at the other end was definitely anxious.

"Ser, Lord Commander Hightower is demanding your presence at once on the _White Lance_."

Ser Jaime Lannister sighed. These days he really hated the Kingsguard.

* * *

 **30.12.289AAC, Somewhere in the Sunset Void**

Between the stars there was the void. This was an inescapable truth every voyager had to face when he left his homeworld for military, commercial or private obligations. A cold realm, ruled by no emperor or king. And in the case of large expanses without stars, the void was even more pressing, more obscure, more threatening. Few humans dared venture too far in the unknown. The maesters, great seekers of knowledge, affirmed that with the technological advances in the last millennia, a lone starship always could find its way back to the civilisation. To this the trade companies, adventurers of all sort and navy officers showed them the list of disappeared ships for all explanation.

Should any of your ship's critical components fail, it was better to pray it was repairable because the rescue operations could take a few centuries to find the damaged vessel. If they found it. For this reason and many others – like the deficiencies of gravitic sensors and the autonomy limits of fusion reactors – the known deployments of Deep Space Fleets into the deep void were relatively few and far between. The warships had to take their supply train with them and losses could be elevated if an unknown phenomenon decided to target a squadron. As far as any sane Admiral was concerned, the proper way to supply a Deep Space Fleet was in the gravity dwell of a system. Here at least there was a chance to recover from disastrous mistakes. Plus the void was...empty, dark and wracking on the nerves. No one but a madman would stay here.

No one but pirates and desperate outlaws; this was what the old wise spacemen whispered in the taverns and bars of the galaxy's spaceports.

No one but the Ironborn in truth.

Far from any known system, star, planet or other celestial body, the Iron Fleet had gathered in all its might.

This was not the same force which had shattered Lannisport. Many of the longships and super-longships bore deep scars on their flanks, reminders that the greenlanders ships had very powerful weapons it was not wise to underestimate. Some hulls were in an even more dilapidated state.

If there had been light to make a holo-video, the scene would have been incredibly threatening. Lightening their black-matter power sources, the Ironborn armada was looking like an endless shoal of voracious space-predators...which when one thought about it was not a wrong impression altogether.

Battle-attrition had thinned the squadrons, but there were still close to seven hundred and fifty longships surrounding one hundred and twenty super-longships. The battles of the Shield sub-sector had been a clear reverse but the bannersmen of House Greyjoy had used these news to fuel the hate in their hearts.

They had gone too far in their Rebellion for the Old Way and the worship of the Void God. Every crewman and reaver knew this.

And as hundreds of captains ordered the translation for a distant system named the Arbor, there was little fear but a lot of anticipation.

It was not every day you were invited to participate in one of the greatest space battles of the era.

* * *

" _We will never know the complete list of the Crow's Eye crimes...but what we discovered is enough to despair. Had the Greyjoy Rebellion not been defeated, how many other crimes and perversions would this monster have committed?_ " Grandmaester Pycelle, 294AAC.

 **Euron Greyjoy, 31.12.289AAC, Pyke System**

The room was so ancient he honestly had no idea how many centuries had passed since its construction. Given the impossibility of modern sensors to detect it and the neglect it had suffered as the servants supposed to clean it progressively forgot about it, Euron had always thought the likely answer was 'a lot'.

It was highly probable this place had been built during the Age of Heroes. Maybe it was even older, preceding the arrival of the First Men in the Westeros Quadrant. It was impossible to know, really. The builders of the Blackstone Fortress had left no manual or history books, no frescoes, no mosaic or warning inscriptions. Or at a moment or another the ancestors of the Ironborn had destroyed it. Sometimes when he considered the astounding stupidity showed by his family the latter case was virtually certain.

But the room remained, dirty little secret in the heart of one of the largest orbital constructions ever built by mortals. Thirty-three meters by thirty-three meters of pale black stone, with a cube of the same sombre mineral at its centre playing the role of the altar. Each of the cube's dimensions was one meter long. Long lines of obsidian and refined volcanic stones were running on the walls, on the ceiling and on the ground.

A narrow-minded lord like his brother would have stopped there and in the best of cases transformed the place into a worship place for the Void God. A more open source of intelligence like this meddlesome Harlaw Reader would have recognised the cultural importance and tried to study it himself...and in all probability sealed the room when he realised its true purpose. But a true practitioner of the Art recognised instantly the ancient power sleeping in the room.

How fortunate then he had informed no man or woman of importance of this discovery. When he had found the secret passages leading to it ten years ago, the few guides who came with him had been reduced to silence in the most permanent of manners. The wretches and the descendants of servants having made their nest nearby had been killed or seen their tongues cut off. After several months, the only persons aware of the place's existence were the mute thralls and himself.

The Crow's Eye smiled, an expression routinely making tremble in the most abject of fears his brothers and the rest of the Pyke population. Restoring the obsidian to pristine condition had demanded a lot of work and hundreds of slaves' life. But it had been worth it. After eight years of research, dedication and questionable sacrifices, the final goal was finally in sight.

"It is time. Bring the Soulstone." He whispered.

His voice was a low murmur inside these walls but since he was the only one able to speak the Captain of the _Silence_ was sure his command had been heard. The old-fashioned stone doors opened in a theatrical creaking, allowing dozens of his slaves – why bother denying what they were – marching in tow neat columns and taking their places their backs to the walls.

Behind them came his greatest creation. Twelve men in black robes held it by the means of one meter-long metallic pliers engraved with protection runes and golden wards. It was dampening the magnificent potency of the artefact, making possible its transportation from the _Silence_ 's vault to the entrails of the Blackstone Fortress.

The cadet son of Lord Quellon Greyjoy had named it the Crow Soulstone.

A vibrant piece of despair and dread, shaped in the form of a black crystal. Extracted from the abysses of Pyke deepest mines at the cost of thousands lives and sanctified in the blood of virgins. Dark in colour initially, the rituals he had performed upon the crystal had lightened a blood-coloured flame into its depts.

 _The key of my destiny_.

The progression of the party to the cube in the centre was voluntarily slow. Time was not pressing and any mistake at this stage was all too likely to provoke something disastrous. The Crow Soulstone was now far more magically charged than when it had left Pyke the last time. Hundreds of thousands souls, Westerners and Ironborn alike, had been consumed by the marvel he had created. The tiniest shard of the Soulstone was incredibly powerful and Euron had made several repetitions before this day to be absolutely sure none of the servants were going to collapse, faint, slip on something or have their concentration falter at an inauspicious moment.

After interminable seconds, the artefact was deposed on an obsidian pedestal suspended centimetres above the cube. One by one, the pliers retracted to let the spear-long supports bear the power and the weight of his Soulstone. The oppressive atmosphere was lifted bit by bit. From his position near the door, Euron saw a relaxation of the shoulders of several thralls, small signs but an evident loosening of the discipline he had imposed for the entire duration of the transport.

 _Fools. I wish I could have accompanied it with a concerto or two but music could disrupt the entire process_.

The first of his servant to try to move away was one of the brutes one of his pirate 'associates' in the Basilisk Sector had sold him. The Tyroshi was one head taller than him and perhaps twice as large. In face of the Crow Soulstone, these bones and muscles were powerless.

A ray of darkness and fire struck him directly in the chest. The pain had to be inhumane, because even after long torture sessions with him and having his tongue cut, the Tyroshi made a guttural sound able to wake up the dead. His flesh was withering in a matter of seconds. A river of blood poured on the area surrounding the cube, the obsidian and the other dark conduits. Realising the monstrous trap he had sent them into, the eleven survivors tried to run away. The Soulstone was still hungry, however. New magical emissions struck them at faster intervals. One by one they screamed, were torn apart internally and externally, the fires of dark magic eating them. And as the slaves died, their souls were dragged from their mortal husks to be assimilated by the artefact. This way even in death they would serve his plans.

Five of his servants ignored the commands he had given them and tried to help the screaming corpses – perhaps they had had some friendships with those? – but it was time they learned solidarity was not a quality when they were in his service. As they touched the agonising thralls they were struck by the magical power of the Soulstone. Moments later they were screaming too, begging for death in death rattles.

 _They can't say I didn't warn them_.

Needless to say, none of the men and women left tried to assist the victims after that. Their fear was so evident it was possible to taste it in the air. The odour of death and burnt flesh was everywhere. The blood was flowing by litres and the dark stone drank it all.

"Do you see it three-eyed senile creature?" His senses, both magical and non-magical, were not sensing anything but Euron knew the greenseer was watching him. "Do you see what you could have possessed?"

His provocations weren't answered. A bit vexing, but the Crow's Eye had understood years ago the decrepit hermit wasn't willing to acknowledge him when he was in a position of weakness or in the wrong. His attention turning back to the Crow Soulstone, the brother of the Iron King contemplated the idea of throwing the rest of the thralls present to his wonderful masterwork. After a deep reflexion, he ultimately renounced it. Giving more souls now may leave the soul-fodder depleted at the worst moment. The Soulstone had to remain stable until the debris of the Iron Fleet came back to Pyke...with the vengeful navies of Westeros on their heels.

The lizards calling themselves Targaryens and their boot-lickers would believe in their arrogance that the war as good as won. And on a pure military confrontation they would be right. But it wasn't going to be this type of fight. No, the millions of soldiers assembling on the Banefort were going to find themselves in their worst nightmare.

They would be angry.

They would be desperate.

They would kill a lot of Ironborn and the Ironborn would retaliate. Never realising that the last ritual he was going to execute before they translated in-system would use of all these deaths, concentrating more power in the Crow Soulstone than the firepower of a million warships.

"And then...I will become a God."

* * *

 **01.01.290AAC, Void's Edge System**

The stellar system showed no sign of human settlement or any sign of intelligent life. In this it didn't differ from hundreds of thousands system all across the galaxy.

The red dwarf illuminating the system was not exactly susceptible to interest anyone. The two gas giants were similar to millions of similar celestial bodies used by humanity to extract the fuel for their starship. There was no telluric planet, never mind inhabitable ones.

And to add problem after problem, there were so many asteroid belts it was practically a guarantee a warship jumping in the system would be forced to manoeuvre at a slug's speed, adding days of travel. Given that the system in question was one hundred and fifty-six light-years north of the Wall System of Castle Black this was not a minor issue.

Technically, the stellar system and everything in it were owned by one of House Umber minor mining companies. Officially, the name given to it was Void's Edge. It was not difficult to see why once a tactical display was lightened: the red dwarf and its surrounding gas giants were the last stopgap before the Boreal Void.

Apart this position, there was little to justify the travel. Both the Night's Watch guarding the Breach-in-the-Stars and House Umber had closer systems where they extracted raw materials. The wildlings evading the black brothers were too intelligent to move to a destination where they would be unable to supply their ships...assuming their hulls held until there. Void's Edge was ignored by the humans and as far as the Night's Watch knew, it had always been that way.

It was a testament how much humanity had forgotten.

Eight thousand years ago, the System had been named Si'ris'var and had had one telluric planet, though if the maesters had been given its characteristics, the specialists of the Citadel and their brightest students would have assumed this miserable ball of ice was unable to support life.

Alas for the maesters and the rest of humanity, nothing could have been more wrong.

Si'ris'var was the homeworld of an alien species and first contact between it and the dominant race of the time had turned catastrophically wrong. The hostilities between the Aldarai – known in the tales and legends as the Children of the Forest – and their new neighbours the Yth'yr'tel had pushed the former to the point of extinction. The Aldarai won the war in the end, thanks to a desperate alliance with a young race rising on the galactic stage.

The Yth'yr'tel, on the brink of utter annihilation, used their techno-sorcery to breach the bounds of space and time and escaped this galaxy. They left behind them a ravaged galaxy and the Breach-in-the-Stars, though the Aldarai gave it a far more fitting name to this unnatural bridge connecting two parts of the universe which should have never been joined.

 _The Eye of Woe_.

The last Yth'yr'tel stranded on the planet of Si'ris'var were not granted a warrior's end. A combined armada of Aldarai and allied races defeated their defences and tore apart the world in an apocalyptic barrage of magic and lasers, reducing it into an asteroid cluster.

An orbital fortress around the smallest gas giant was build to make sure that never the Yth'yr'tel remnants plaguing the Westeros Quadrant would go back to their destroyed home system and survive.

This was the theory. But the Aldarai crossed the Breach-in-the-Stars to ensure their worst enemy was well and truly gone, leaving their young allies stand guard in their newly build star fortresses.

The Children of the Forest never came back.

And for humanity, now free to assume the mantle of the most powerful star-faring race, 'never' was a very long time.

Eighteen hundred years after the last Yth'yr'tel was banished from this part of the galaxy, the fort of Si'ris'var was towed back to Eastwatch-by-the-Void. Following a severe decrease in the number of recruits due to a lasting peace between the Northern and Vale kingdoms, the Night's Watch was forced to close down many bases and shift their duties in the face of new threats.

The Great Enemy was gone. The Yth'yr'tel – although humanity had always preferred to call them the Others – had disappeared from existence. Even the wildlings, descendants of the legions who followed the Aldarai on the other side of the Breach, could not say to have seen one of the pale-skinned aliens in centuries.

The history of the terrible war became a legend and few were the records of the apocalyptic conflict survived. The memories became legends. Legends became myths. Sometimes ancient seals broke and wights of ancient times marched in the night, but they were rapidly dealt with good flamethrowers. These very rare vents were largely overshadowed by uncountable civil wars, feudal quarrels and monumental treasons. Humanity had no rival to challenge its domination over the stars, but it didn't mean the galaxy was big enough to live in peace. The horrors of the Long Night were replaced in the evening tales by glorious exploits of imaginary or real Andal knights. As the Faith of Seven spread through multiple Sectors, the little stories and the warnings of ancient times were erased by the septons and the maesters. Save the Northern Sector, the stories and past actions of the Age of Heroes were so deeply discredited no Lord or common smallfolk regarded them with any seriousness.

But legends had always had a core of truth. Humanity had been all too happy to forget its ancient Enemy.

The Enemy however had not forgotten them.

Six hours after the standard Westerosi year of 289AAC ended, a mini-wormhole formed at a point situated about ten million kilometres away from the red dwarf, neatly between the two gas giants. There had been no warning of any sort, no great cosmic storm to announce this change. One second it was here. For the human observer –should any have been on site to observe the phenomenon – it would have been looking at something between a whirlpool and a mirror. And then less than twenty seconds after its start, it was over. The wormhole was gone.

But the starship having emerged from the void did not disappear.

One glance at the formidable hull was all it took to acknowledge this was not a human design. It was impossibly long, close to four kilometres in length. The width of the new apparition was ridiculously tiny. From prow to stern the metal was coursing streams of livid blue energy. To describe it in a single sentence, it gave the impression of a thin blade forged by a master. And then its impellers activated with blue flashes, accelerating the ship to speeds counter-indicated for any human crew no matter their sanity.

After eight millennia of absence, the Yth'yr'tel had come back home.

* * *

 _The first round of Operation Dalton was a clear defeat for the Ironborn and an evident indicator the Rebellion was becoming more and more unsustainable. Ninety-seven longships, one super-longship and twenty-two transports were outright destroyed. Dozens of the survivors would need a major shipyard to repair the damage, and the distance from the Iron Sector ensured some of those ships would still not be battle-ready when the Westerosi navies attacked Pyke. The butcher bill was monstrous, the cause lying with many ground formations being butchered in the transports affected to the Southshield operation. Over half a million Ironborn were dead, eleven thousand were prisoner of the Reach and tens of thousands were wounded. These were losses the Iron Fleet could not afford._

 _The victory had not been a gratuitous one for the Shield sub-Sector. Counting civilian and military casualties, the number of Reach men who had died in these four distinct battles was close to four hundred thousand and the price of Greyshield reconstruction promised to be expensive. One ship of the line and five battlecruisers were orbital debris, two other ships of the line were out of commission for months and dozens of smaller ships were gone. Perhaps this was one of the reasons which convinced King Balon Greyjoy to launch his attack on the Arbor. That it was completely insane seemed to escape the minds of the Ironborn High Command_...

From the Greyjoy Rebellion by Yzabel Tendao, 298AAC.


	8. The Arbor Inferno

**Greyjoy Rebellion Arc 4**

 **The Arbor Inferno**

 _The attack on the Shield Sub-Sector had utterly failed. The Ironborn commanders had planned to capture by surprise the four planets which were the seats of the Shield Houses, a conquest which not only would have restored part of their ancient kingdom but also opened to them a path to the Highgarden System._

 _One system had been crushed but the three others had repulsed the assault, inflicting grievous losses on the longships of the Iron Sector. The grand strategy thought by King Balon Greyjoy and his councillors was more and more a failure as each day passed. Before the annihilation of his son Maron at Southshield, it had been estimated the Kraken monarch would have approximately three years before the rate of reconstruction and the sheer manpower available to the Iron Throne ensured a total victory for King Rhaegar Targaryen and his allies._

 _After the defeat, simulations and battle-predictions guaranteed the Iron Fleet would last less than two years against the hundreds of warships and the millions of men the royal dynasty was gathering under the banners of the red dragon. House Greyjoy had destroyed its economy, its shipyards were already filled with crippled longships and tens of thousands severely injured reavers. Neither Pyke nor Harlaw had the capabilities to replenish their divisions and their squadrons. The men fighting under the Kraken could fight on foreign systems or stay at home to help the working force. They couldn't do both._

 _The superiority in terms of troop numbers, economic output and military production was each day more unfavourable for the Ironborn. If nothing was done, the combined Targaryen, Hightower and Redwyne Deep Space Fleets were going to provoke them in an open battle and send them back screaming against the defences of the Iron Sector._

 _Which was why Balon Greyjoy intended nothing the sort. The former Lord Paramount announced to the great stupefaction of the small contingent of captains worrying for his sanity they were going to attack the Arbor System after all. According to all the reliable reports from their longships, the Redwyne Navy was fortifying the Shield Sub-Sector, relying on their Hightower, Targaryen and other allies to assure the defence of their home system for the time being. It was obvious the greenlanders didn't expect an attack on one of their vital system. Therefore, the entirety of the Ironborn armada was going to slam into its defences._

 _The entire plan reeked of a strategy of despair. Over ninety per-cent of the available longships and ninety-three per-cent of the super-longships were committed to this attack. There was no alternate plan, no reserve and very little starships which could serve as a supply and reparation base if things went wrong._

 _The Greyjoy Rebellion wasn't six months old and yet its rebellious King was already launching its forces into a last-ditch offensive._

From _Balon Greyjoy's Last Folly_ by Archmaester Peror, 295AAC.

 **Lieutenant Jon Buckley, 06.01.290AAC, Arbor System**

If there was one word to describe his job, Lieutenant 5th class - a rank more commonly known as Flower Space Officer in the records - Jon Buckley would have described it as boring.

Watch the screens, eat, go to the toilets, watch the screens, eat, watch the screens, sleep, and watch the screens. What was to be seen on those screens? Nothing. Or to be more accurate, darkness and oblivion, with some distant stars far, far away from everything. For the three men stationed in the minuscule monitoring station of S-U58Z12, approximately fifteen light-hours from the star of the Arbor System, this was a boring endeavour.

Unfortunately, Jon Buckley and the two young recruits charged of the surveillance hadn't been exactly in position to refuse the command when their superiors had ordered them around. Before the war, he had been stationed into one of the thousands jobs the Redwyne Navy kept for administrative purposes. Indeed, his job had been to collect statistics on the Ibbenese merchant ships stopping in the facilities of House Redwyne. A very tranquil job since there had been no Ibbenese diplomatic or trade delegation for five years and three months honouring the Reach dockyards and stores from their presences. The pay had been very modest, but he had most of his afternoons free and could pass his evening in the bars while his nominal superiors had probably forgotten his very existence.

The rebellion of a Seven-damned squid had changed that. Out of the blue, the Redwyne Navy had found itself at war and had suddenly discovered it was quite lacking in personnel to man all the surveillance and monitoring sections in the fringes of the star system. Not that a second Lannisport could ever happen now that Westeros was officially at war with the Ironborn scum but better not to take any chance. The Arbor, system of House Redwyne, was inhabited by over three billion souls and hundreds of ships arrived and left every day, making the inhabitable planet, its asteroid belts, the fuel facilities around the large two gas giants and the thousands of orbital habitats an extremely valuable target for any enemy no matter his origin. As a result, hundreds of long-range sensors, monitor-satellites and small alert stations had been refurbished in haste and deployed into the void. The issue had been manpower. Many Redwyne warships had waited empty in overhaul or the grand mothballs created after the War of the Usurper. The mighty Admirals in their silver towers had wanted those filled in priority. The forts and the immobile defences had been taken care of in second. The filling of surveillance stations which would be undoubtedly destroyed at the first small raid had been left to the troublesome reservists and former desk offices of the merchant navy. It went without saying that the men noted to be the first out of their offices had been unfairly chosen for this dangerous chore.

And thus Lieutenant Joe Buckley was staring at the darkness on a screen, waiting for his watch to pass and trying to cure his boredom in every manner possible, not that they were many. The S-U58Z12 station was small, old and cramped. The room they were receiving the information transmitted from the sensors was the biggest and there was barely enough space for Buckley and his two companions of misfortune to sit on their hard seats without kicking the other in the legs, in the arms or another place. It was not comfortable at all and the worst part was that this was probably the best section of the monitoring station. The toilets had...issues, and good luck trying to convince the shuttle of technicians coming for resupply each week to help. The 'bedroom' was a lone bunk bed which could have hold in half his wardrobe at home and was harder than stone. The 'cooking room' was even smaller than the working one and has a single chair, a microwave oven working half of the time and rations so bad they were eating them and pinching their nose at the same time. Sometimes he wondered if the 'famous' black brothers of the Night's Watch had better or worse accommodations. They were probably worse, Jon Buckley concluded. House Redwyne and the rest of their highborn masters wanted them to re-enlist for a miserable sum. The Wall commanders did not pay their men.

Jon checked his watch. Another one hour and nine minutes to go before Mat relayed him and he stopped watching the void. Why did he even think about the end of the watch? There was nothing to do on this damned and forgotten place. All told the 'rooms' plus the machine section were smaller than a mid-sized apartment. Whatever holo-magazines had been read and re-read a hundred times until they could quote them by heart and their 'friends' of the supplies always refused to bring new ones. Perhaps it had to do with the fact Mat had tried bribing one for porno. And that with the imagery of the shuttle being broken this day, he had not realised there was a woman at the other end of the communication.

Still fifty-three complete days to hold and they would be authorised to return to the Arbor. The Lieutenant swore he was going to kiss the ground once this holy moment came. In the mean time, there was only the void and- wait a minute, what was this on screen B4? It looked like a sort of light flash...

"Mat, do we have a planned translation in sector HU-B4?"

His subordinate took a few seconds to understand he had been asked a question. Two more seconds Jon waited for him to interrogate the machines and twenty seconds more to have an answer. The machines they had were like the screens, near obsolescence. The only things which had been modernised since the time of Maegor the Cruel were the alert systems. Comfort of the humans living there and ability to search relevant data had not been taken into account.

"Not for...three days, five hours and twenty minutes. A convoy from the Oldtown System, if the data they sent us in the latest update is correct."

Lieutenant Buckley tensed from his shoulders to his toes. There was nothing planned today but he had seen something. The sane part of his mind told him he was too tired, monumentally bored and was jumping at shadows. There was no way the Ironborn would be crazy enough to attack the Arbor. Not with all its myriad of defences and entire battlefleets mounting guard. It was certainly nothing. A malfunction of the station sensors was the most likely explanation. The Smith only knew how many years they had passed in a dusty storage before being drawn into service once again but it had not improved their performance.

Then the second dark flash opened a few thousand kilometres away on HU-B1 and this time there was no way it could be mistaken for anything but a void translation. The alerts on every screen began to blare less than a second after. The few hours of training they had received before being assigned to this place of boredom kicked in and Jon literally crushed the bright red button which would link him at light-speed with the command stations orbiting around Blue Pearl.

"General Alert! General Alert! Non-authorised void translations in sector HU-B1! Strength estimated..." His brain almost froze under the numbers which were reported by the sensors, praying inwardly it was a terrible joke or a training exercise which had not been reported to their lowly hides. "...four hundred plus warships! I repeat, four hundred-plus warships have just translated in sector HU-B1! This is a general attack! Command-"

More and more translations were seen as his voice had been delivering the message. Certain were very far from the station, barely perceptible like the first one he had almost been persuaded that it didn't exist. But the majority were close. They were mere thousands of kilometres away, deep into the envelope of the laser batteries and the plasma guns. A new blaze of energy shredded the mortal plane and a black leviathan with a great golden prow materialised out of the void less than a hundred kilometres away from his seat. At this distance, there was no way in the Seven Hells they could have been missed.

"Oh, shit." Screamed Mat.

For a second, Jon prayed the captain of this ship was not the kind to massacre people unable to resist. Unfortunately, the scans had a direct view on the warship's hull, allowing the natives of the Arbor to read the name of their doom.

 _Great Kraken_.

"We're so dead." He whispered. The monitoring station had no weapon, no escape pod, nothing which could save them.

A spear of pure energy engulfed the screens and their whole world. Milliseconds later, Jon Buckley and his monitoring team became the first lives claimed by the Battle of the Arbor.

* * *

 **Lord Lucerys Velaryon, 06.01.290AAC, Arbor System**

When High Admiral Lucerys Velaryon had gone to his bed yesterday, it was so late the night had been half-over and the great bane of the Royal Fleet and Mankind had been triumphing. Since the Ironborn had begun their bloody revolt, he was drowned in a sea of memos, reports, advices, recriminations, protests and outrageous demands. And the shivering thing...he was the commanding officer of the Deep Space Fleet and thus was spared the majority of the titanic bureaucratic entanglements. Unfortunately, the Lords, Heirs, the King affiliates and every person having the possibility to send him endless files he neither had the time nor the envy to read did it with great entrain.

Paperwork was winning the war. The Lord of Driftmark had heard the jokes of a certain Stonedance Knight that if there was any justice in this part of the galaxy, the loser should negotiate the administrative nonsense of the winning side. The more he thought about it, the more this proposition was attractive. Assuming they won of course.

Given his state of fatigue, the Master of Ships had prayed –without great hope – he would be granted three or four hours of sleep.

Being woken up by high-pitched alarms after fifty-two minutes of rest had not been in his plans. But as his exhausted mind tried to recover, the part of his mind which had recognised the noise put itself in movement. Not bothering to wait for his servants, Lucerys jumped in the first of his gold and red uniforms which fell in his hands and ran out of his quarters.

Cavalcades echoing everywhere accompanied him on his way to the command bridge as he and the entire crew were running to their battle-stations. The alarms blared seven times in all before going silent. Their purpose had been fulfilled. Every man aboard the _Sword of Dragonstone_ who was neither deaf nor dead knew they were facing an enemy assault.

His bridge was in a state of complete chaos when he stormed in. Ordinarily there was a column of armsmen to greet him and a few minutes of fanfare for the presentations but not this time. Officers were like him rushing to their posts, updating their consoles and receiving the latest news from their watch replacements.

"Admiral on the bridge!" Barked Ser Rufus Staunton, the white knight of the Kingsguard assigned to his person as imperturbable as ever in his pristine white battle-armour. A few dozen officers jumped at his voice and the entire crowd saluted by reflex.

"Carry on." Commanded their superior. Saluting and healing his ego could wait for another time. For the moment what he needed was information. What in the Seven Hells was going on?

"Talk to me, Veryon."

"This is bad, High Admiral." His Velaryon chief of staff was pale-faced under the artificial light projected aboard the _Sword of Dragonstone_. "Our monitoring stations are destroyed one after the other but they have lasted enough time to tell us we have the entire Iron Fleet translating in the system."

"Are we sure this is no mere raid?"

For all answer, Veryon clicked on his screen, showing by this the latest estimates of the enemy numbers. Lucerys Velaryon felt his heart beat harder, almost painfully for several seconds. Seven hundred and twenty longships, over one hundred and ten of their larger variants and more were translating every second. The tactical holo-projectors chose this moment to update all the information and lightened to reveal a swarm of black dots plaguing the north-eastern edge of the display.

"Send immediately two fast frigates and an entire wing of raven-drones to Admiral Paxter Redwyne. Update the information we have and transmit him a request for reinforcements." There was no great point covering the Shield Sub-Sector if the entire forces of the Ironborn attacked in force here.

"Order transmitted, High Admiral." Acknowledged the Royal Captain in charge of the communication section. It would not change anything for the time being, Paxter and the rest of his squadrons would need at least a week to come back...the battle would be long over by this point.

 _Now what am I going to do_?

He and the majority of the fleet in-system were in orbit around the gas giant originally named _Blue Pearl_ , covering the fuel facilities behind them, the Red Grape orbital belt and the hundreds of mining facilities and extractors. This way any enemy wanting to continue towards the heart of the Arbor System was forced to fight them head-on before going after Arbor, its great shipyards the other vital industry and trade the Redwynes had managed to develop in the last centuries. The value of each of these parts was immense...and as High Admiral it was duty nothing happened to them.

 _Should I wait and let them crush their heads against the fortresses_?

No, no he couldn't do this. All the reports he had received from the Redwynes citadel masters had emphasized how much modernisation their commands needed to be fully functional. Not to mention the millions of men who were going to die. The dark lances and the missiles built by the Ironborn were terribly imprecise at extreme range. He couldn't let the murderous squids reserve the same treatment they had just caused at Greyshield.

"Veryon. Formation Diamond-four. Kindly request Admirals Baelor Hightower and Rolland Graceford to join our battle-line."

"Yes, my lord."

A long series of green dots began to shine on the holo-projector as dozens of Reach and Crown units accelerated to form the defensible formation he had chosen. One by one squadron commanders, individual captains or senior space officers were formally announcing their battle-readiness. With a point of annoyance the Lord of Driftmark noticed none of the Estermont warships had managed to lighten their engineering compartments yet. Truly Jon Connington performance in handling his bannersmen was beyond words. Nothing heavier than a heavy cruiser and their sluggishness in all training exercises was bordering on the edge of incompetence and treachery. At least on the right side of his tactical display the Yronwood carriers were launching their entire complements of starfighters. Commander of Fifty Thousand Ynys Yronwood had not been exactly shy to let them know the disgust she had for the dragon emblem, but at least she was competent contrary to certain of Lucerys' peers.

 _Maybe we should authorise women in our ranks. They certainly can't be worse than some of the imbeciles I am forced to cope with_.

"High Admiral, the Ironborn are closing too quickly." Informed him Rear-Admiral Langward on a priority link. "They must be red-lining their reactors and all their hell-spawned machinery!"

Less than half a minute was necessary to assess this affirmation was in fact underestimating the gravity of the threat. Under maximum acceleration, longships should have entered contact with the Targaryen-Reach loyal fleet in two hours and ten minutes. The beginning of the general engagement was going to start thirty minutes before this moment such was the infernal momentum gained by the reavers.

All over the different bridges of flag officers thorough the fleet, men whispered of the madness plaguing the Ironborn. After all these mad pirates had already chosen to rebel against the entire realm for reasons nobody understood. One more bout of craziness wasn't that surprising. But it remained an extremely crazy tactic, in Lucerys' opinion. The Ironborn were giving him less time to prepare, yes. But they were sacrificing the quasi-totality of whatever they burnt in their reactors. Whoever emerged from the battle victorious, the Iron Fleet was going to need a lot of repairs and fuel, mistreating their engines like this.

"How many starfighters will have joined us at the four hundred thousand kilometres mark?" Asked the Lord of Galactic Tides.

"Somewhere between eight and nine thousand, High Admiral. Some of the bays of the Arbor are still launching, they will never catch us before we engage."

The Master of Ships acknowledged the answer of his subordinate with a small grimace. He had expected a far greater number...the number of serviceable starfighters in-system was close to thirty thousand two days ago. On the other hand, nothing he would do, order or threaten could change the position of the starfighters. Besides, the Fighter Command was not formally under his jurisdiction, courtesy of severe influence feuds and many administrative complications.

Still, what he had was a very powerful fleet. Between the Fleet of Dragonstone, the Hightowers, the Reach bannersmen, and the Yronwood flagship he had nine deep-space ships of the line under his command. Two armoured cruisers, twenty battlecruisers and thirty-three heavy cruisers would support them. The escorts – by this he meant light and scout cruisers – were in the hundred and sixty-plus range. A bit less than four thousand starfighters surrounded them like a swarm of insects.

"Should we begin with our long-range options, High Admiral?"

"No, we haven't enough time to coordinate properly for this kind of elegant tactics." One more thing the Ironborn insane speed had robbed them. The Targaryen trident-shaped hulls were able to fire at four hundred and ten thousand kilometres but their Reach massive sept-battleships counterparts had a smaller envelope, between three hundred and ninety to three hundred and eighty-five thousand kilometres. "We will begin our volley by the plan of fire Conqueror. Afterwards...well the captains have the order to shoot as long as they are Ironborn alive to kill."

"The spectacle isn't going to be nice." Whispered his second-removed cousin.

The two members of House Velaryon exchanged dark glances. This battle was going to be ugly and dolorous. By all laws of sanity, any Admiral having a considerable number of warships under his command didn't charge like a bull against the opposition. A space fleet, deep space or conventional, was worth billions of work hours and more dragons in platinum or gold everybody but a Lannister was going to see in his life. Straight-on charges looked very good on the holo-series, but it was almost never done. The War of the Usurper was one of the very rare examples where entire Sector fleets had battled each other to death, and even at the Trident the rebels had sneaked on the loyalist force at the beginning. Common sense and the length of time required to replace warships didn't encourage insane tactics. Evidently, no one had bothered teaching this to Balon Greyjoy.

"For sure." Lucerys had a thought for his wife and his young son who waited for him at Dragonstone. Was he going to see them smiling at him ever again? Until this day he had never really questioned his mortality and how he would leave this world. Ships of the line were hard to damage and a fleet flagship was traditionally at the core of an extremely elaborated system of anti-missiles. But in a battle like this, no one was safe. Ultimately, chance and fate would have their word to say.

 _Damn you Balon Greyjoy. Damn you to the Seven Hells for the tens of thousands people your bannersmen have killed. And damn you too, oh my King. We should have watched the Iron Sector like dragons guarded their eggs after the War of the Usurper. How in the Seven hells could we miss that kind of rearmament_?

"But our ships are built for this kind of battles while the longships are raiders and skirmishers." The 'super-longships' were tougher, but for battlecruiser-sized hulls they died rather rapidly if one knew their weak points. "And those aren't our only forces whereas their entire fleet and their best commanders are in those ships."

"We beat them and the road to Pyke will be opened."

"Exactly."

Minutes passed and the entire crew rotated to the armouries, removing their hastily-worn uniforms to replace them by void suits or battle-armours. Ser Rufus Staunton, whose presence was a clear indicator to Lucerys how little Rhaegar Targaryen trusted him, had replaced his parade equipment by an incredibly massive and expensive Terminator model. Adjustments were made on the formation as one or two ships reported technical issues or starfighters of different types showed they couldn't fight together.

The Ironborn armada hadn't changed course once from the moment they had aggressively pushed on. They were not decelerating either, which was a stupid idea. Thousands of starfighters were following the trail of his warships, too far away to participate in the first volleys but at the speed the reavers were going in, they wouldn't be able to stop them.

And finally it was time.

"Remember whose lives we're defending." _The men, women and the children of the Reach. Not you, my King_. "Open fire."

* * *

 **Lady Ynys Yronwood, 06.01.290AAC, Arbor System**

"Open fire."

The discipline maintained in the communications had not been excellent until that point. But after High Admiral Velaryon's order, it literally went to the Seven Hells.

"Kill them! Kill all the Ironborn!"

"For King Rhaegar and no quarter!"

"Fire! All batteries fire!"

Each Admiral, Squadron Commander, Lord of any importance or Senior Captain wanting to assuage his monumental ego shouted what he hoped to be a memorable pre-battle sentence. It became so loud the Commander of Two Hundred in charge of her own communications section cut nearly every link save the one putting them in contact with the Targaryen fleet flagship.

Tens of thousands missiles, so numerous they almost blocked the light of the stars, began their course of destruction across the void. Mere seconds later, the Ironborn replied in a less coordinated fashion, answering by their own massive salvoes of black-matter projectiles. A spectacle rarely seen in any part of this galaxy, the two immense fleets were ritually going to their deaths in screams and thunder.

"That promises to be bloody." Commented Ynys Yronwood, absently. One or two crewwomen of her staff nodded automatically with sorrow on their visages. Several women and men on the other hand smiled widely, looking particularly eager to see the bloodbath begins.

"I hope the _Blood Royal_ will survive." Commented Captain Masserend, her new flag captain.

The _Blood Royal_ was the sole Yronwood ship of the line present in the system, one of the three Yronwood warships which were going to battle in the bloody melee. Which was exactly why Ynys was not aboard it but had instead transferred days before on the _Sandy Path_ , one of her twelve escort carriers lingering fifty thousand kilometres behind the main formation. And her carriers all retained sufficient starfighters' cover to counter the longships which would manage to break through. Her specialty laid in starfighters command and she was less likely to die this way.

It was not like it was going to make a difference in the battle's outcome either way. The moment she had had the dubious honour of meeting the Reach and Targaryen admirals was the one she had realised they were never going to let apply proper hit-and-run strategies. The entire Dornish structure of command was one of flexibility and initiative, imagined to compensate their small numbers by injuring their enemies everywhere they were vulnerable. The other two kingdoms strategies were the complete opposite. The higher you went in the ranks of the dragons and the roses, the more you had an impression of absolute conservatism, complete rigidity and a will to obey the orders no matter what they were. It was entirely possible some of these men would have cut their own throats if Aerys the Mad King had demanded it of them.

 _At least we only obeyed because the Pyromaniac had Martell hostages. Those cowards obey because they haven't enough brains to realise the Kings they bent the knee are dangers for everyone_.

Worse, she was a woman. The Reach didn't have any officers of her sex aboard their warships. Of course, they hadn't a single woman in their armies and the rest of their million-strong forces, period. The same was true for the Deep Space Fleet of Dragonstone since Baelor I had decided to publish a royal edict commanding in a few words that women should not be in a position to tempt the warriors of the Seven away from their duties. And more recently Jon Connington had passed similar laws for the Storm Sector. Ynys was the only woman commander in a fleet of men believing the only place of the other sex was at home making a lot of babies for the new generation they would unavoidably kill on the next battlefield.

She wouldn't shed a tear at all when these magnificent examples of chivalry and sheer arrogance left this world. This happy event was planned for the next seconds. The bridge of the Sandy Path went quieter as the missiles approached the end of their life, irradiating light in the final part of their attacks run. The void saw its depths of darkness recede as uncountable warheads of destruction illuminated it in a thousand miniature suns.

The Ironborn were the first to launch their anti-missiles and the rest of their local-made counter-measures. Five seconds later, it was the turn of the Westerosi allied fleet to erupt in a cloud of lightning-fast arrows, the tactical sections of each ship trying to adjust their measures before the storm was on them. Both sides' efforts were not enough; that much was clear even with the limited vision she had from her own bridge. There were simply too many missiles. The defences of the massive fleet under High Admiral Lucerys Velaryon could have easily stopped hundreds and handled thousands. But as the sensors flared and the consoles almost burned out at the size of the salvoes exchanged, tens of thousands missiles passed the last point-laser defences and detonated.

"Mother Rhoyne..." Someone breathed on her right.

The implacable waves of annihilation detonated, uncaring for the lives they terminated. For a brief instant, the tactical display and the largest part of their data-acquisition network was completely overwhelmed. The missiles slammed into the durasteel hulls and the alloys, perforating the toughest materials humanity had been able to produce. Sounds could not be heard in the void but the expressions of the orange-uniformed Dornish officers showed how much they were seeing in the star-shattering expressions ravaging millions of tons of military investment. Plasma and laser batteries were torn apart, their guns and their operators detached from their supports and expulsed without warning in the void.

Entire hulls went out of formation, gigantic comets rolling over and over in a burning demise, their compartments depressurised, thousands of their crewmen abandoned to a certain death. Agony screams came from the _Sword of Dragonstone_ 's bridge and the other flag bridges the operators they tried to contact. Fusion reactors went out of control and several weren't stopped in time. Seconds later, it was like they were new suns in the Arbor System.

After eight seconds of fog of war, clarity returned to the tactical displays and their gravity sensors. It was to show a spectacle of ruin and desolation. The Targaryen Fleet and their Reach allies had been brutally hammered. Six ships of the line could still be considered fit for battle, and fortunately the _Blood Royal_ was among them. The _Sword of Dragonstone_ wasn't. It was a crippled hulk, many of its decks plunged into an inferno and its sister-ship the _King Jaehaerys I_ was in an even worse state. The last two ships of the line had been reduced to orbital debris. Many battlecruisers and heavy cruisers had been pulverised the same way. Surprisingly the 'obsolete' armoured cruisers had all survived. Maybe because no one wished to waste ammunition on these space antiquities.

Its formation now full of holes and brutally savaged, the Reachers and the Crownlanders ships were decelerating, still defiant but trying to catch their breath after the beating they had received. However, their losses had not been in vain.

Lord Velaryon might have been caught off-guard by the insane strategy of the Ironborn, but he had fought back hard. Over one-third of the longships and the super-longships were busy disintegrating and dozens, no hundreds, had lost their engineering sections or had their critical systems failing. And thanks to their initial charge and their reckless trajectory, escape was not difficult; it was more or less impossible without first getting rid of the enemy fleet.

The two fleets drew closer from each other. Volleys after volleys, smaller than the first but impressive in rage and lethality, were launched into the void. The range of engagement diminishing meant lasers super-batteries could at last enter the dance.

"Launch our reserve starfighters for close-range support and put us on a two-zero-two bearing." Ordered the Yronwood Heiress. A grimace graced her traits when she saw less than half of the starfighters she had launched were coming back. These deaths were nothing in numbers compared to the rest of the fleet but she was not paid to care about the non-Dornish captains. One of her two heavy cruisers was also gone, killed by twenty missiles.

 _Damn. We will have really to modify our new classes if longships can destroy our vessels that easily_.

"My lady...the Ironborn are sending boarding craft to assault the damaged Targaryen ships."

In other occasions, Ynys would have laughed. After so much deaths and bloodshed, she decided to abstain. Really, Balon Greyjoy should really know when continuing a battle was counter-productive.

 _I wonder how many ships he is going to lose before sounding the retreat_?

* * *

 _By the time the first phase of the Battle of the Arbor was over, it had become quite clear the second great engagement of the Iron Fleet after Lannisport was going to be its last. Forty-four super-longships had been transformed into plasma clouds lighting the battlefield for hours. Two hundred and fifty-three longships had exploded or been reduced to the state of airless hulks. And those were only the warships destroyed outright. Scores of squadrons were gutted, their decks opened to the void, their weapons destroyed and thousands of irreplaceable crewmen throwing themselves into their escape pods. The core of the fleet House Greyjoy and its closest allies had spent years gathering in secret had been expended in the most brutal and bloodiest fashion imaginable._

 _The outcome of the battle wasn't in doubt anymore. Even in the unlikely case the surviving reavers managed to destroy the allied Targaryen-Reach fleet, they would still have to deal with the approaching thousands of starfighters and the orbital defences of each planet. And yet in this desperate hour the Ironborn leadership proved his deficiencies in the most glaring manner. Seeing the damaged state of the Sword of Dragonstone and the King Jaehaerys I, the Iron King and his advisers were convinced they could decapitate the enemy's command structure. This chaotic disorder would provide enough time for the Iron Fleet to finish the mobile defenders of the Arbor and decide their next course of action._

 _Alas for the massive boarding attack force, High Admiral Lucerys Velaryon had already relinquished his command of the fleet to Rose Admiral Baelor Hightower seconds before. The Sword of Dragonstone had lost eighty per-cent of its communications capability and half of its standard armament. Fires were raging in eight sections of the trident-shaped hull built in the grand shipyards of Dragonstone. Concentrating a capture-and-destroy operation on this particular warship and its injured sister-ship therefore was of a very limited tactical value. To make things worse for the Ironborn, the Sword of Dragonstone had been one of the rare ships to embark a battalion of Dragonstone Space Infantry, giving it an anti-boarding force of roughly a thousand men._

 _At the same time, the six intact ships of the line continued with their surviving escorts to ravage the longships squadron by squadron in a lethal combination of lasers, missiles and plasma. Individual captains, in complete panic over the rising losses and the failing leadership they were supposed to follow blindly, changed course and programmed their escape paths._

 _And in spite of this catastrophic debacle, neither King Balon nor his brother Victarion were ordering the retreat._

From _Balon Greyjoy's Last Folly_ by Archmaester Peror, 295AAC.

* * *

 **Urrigon Greyjoy, 06.01.290AAC, Arbor System**

It was not his first battle but honestly he had been so drunk the previous ones that he nearly felt like a novice reaver. Urrigon grinned with his teeth bared for everyone to see on his command seat when the _King of Rum_ translated in the Arbor system alongside the rest of the Iron Fleet.

This time he was going to prove his worth and not spend his time drinking and fucking the girls his raids and his drinking performances had won him. On this day, Victarion would have no choice to acknowledge him and Aeron as reavers worthy of the Greyjoy name. His longship and the squadron he commanded accelerated to follow the formation, heading deep into the system.

As the seconds passed, the entire system was unveiling its secrets. Never before Urrigon had seen that many places to plunder and pillage. There were scores of shipyards, expensive orbital habitats, military and trade facilities, mining ships, refuelling stations...and this was not counting the wine, the girls and the gold waiting for them at the Arbor itself. Truly his brother had been right to attack this place. When they left this system, every reaver and captain would be richer than one of the ancient Kings of old!

 _Richer than the Lannisters, ha_!

But to fulfil their ambitions and teach the greenlanders that the Ironborn deserved to be the rulers of the galaxy, the dragons and their feeble allies had to be beaten first. Not that it was going to be difficult. The greenlanders were weak, decadent, desired peace at all cost and the best part of the year their warships were in mothball. The Seven Sectors had been forged in fire and blood by the dragons, but the dragons were dead and sheep had replaced them. It was time for a new order to take place, one with the Ironborn at the top. The _River Conqueror_ , the _Bloody Tempest_ and the _Rites of Battle_ took the position of honour to the King of Rum's side, followed by the ten other longships under his command. Aeron's squadron followed them two hundred kilometres to their right, the _Golden Storm_ at their head – his brother had lacked the courage to build the prow figure he had wanted and instead had replaced it by the crying figure of a greenlander Lord.

 _Too bad I still think it would have made a good joke_.

This was a good day to battle. The evil crow he was forced to call his brother had stayed at Pyke, his rank, squadrons and prerogatives removed until he formally apologised to their royal brother. Balon's heir was in disfavour since his defeat at Oakenshield and was on his way back to Pyke for the lengthy reparations his flagship required. He had finally a squadron to command and prizes to take: one look at the enemy fleet was enough to make a reaver salivate. There were the trident of the Crownlanders, the large septs-barges of the Reach and a few swift and fragile things which had to be Dornish. There were a few hammerhead-prows of the Storm Sector, but only a little squadron trailing far behind below the plane of the blue gas giant. This kind of prize variety had grown scarce after Lannisport and Urrigon smile became wider as he tried to imagine the money one or two of these cruisers could give him.

"Slaughter the greenlanders!" He joyously shouted when the order came from his brother Victarion to kill the lizards and their ass-kissers.

And then the entire system was alight with tens of thousands missiles. Urrigon had never seen so many in his life and he had been forced to admit this wasn't the weak, uncoordinated fire they had expected of the greenlanders. None of the enemy commanders ran to their mothers, opened their communications to surrender or evaded the fight. This was a fight to the death, and the impressive acceleration they had forced upon their hulls made sure they couldn't avoid this torrent of death. The _King of Rum_ officers did their best, pushed by his encouragements and the minor issue their lives were on the line. But they were simply too many to stop. Longships and the war longships had barely the time to launch one wave of anti-missiles. The dark lances-point laser defences combination was too little and too late. The missiles went through his squadron like a Valyrian knife through an animal's flesh. The _Rites of Battle_ disappeared from the tactical display in a bright explosion. The _Peak of Violence_ lost its entire stern and drifted away, its hull rocked by powerful explosions. The _Bloody Tempest_ now justified its name as his entire bridge became a slaughterhouse and half of its armament burned in a hellish inferno.

"My lord...the _Golden Storm_..." Urrigon turned his head to see the position of his brother's starship, only for his eyes to be blinded by a phenomenal flash when the entire ammunition chamber of Aeron's longship detonated. Two other longships were caught in this cauldron of brilliance and plasma. Urrigon addressed a prayer to the Void God. Maybe his brother had managed to reach an escape pod. Maybe this wasn't the _Golden Storm_ , no matter what the displays and the console showed. But when the man-made star ceased to trouble their black-matter sensors, the _Golden Storm_ didn't reappear. There was nothing left of the proud longship, just a handful of orbital debris and it was more likely they belonged to the other longships caught in the explosion.

"NO! NOOOOOOOOO!" Screamed the son of Lord Quellon Greyjoy. It wasn't possible. Aeron was not gone. Aeron couldn't be gone. The only brother who had been a true brother for him. Their laughs, their bets and their plans to earn the glory they deserved. All gone.

"My lord...the Lord Captain orders us to launch our boarding craft. We must attack and capture the battlecruiser-"

Urrigon didn't feel sadness anymore. He looked at the damaged fleet of the greenlanders and he felt the cold embrace of something he had never felt before. Hate.

"I will kill them! I will KILL THEM!" The brother of the Iron King threw the words like they were as many lethal weapons before commanding his second. "Take the command of the _King of Rum_. I will lead the boarders myself!"

"My lord..."

"DO IT!" Screamed Urrigon and whatever words the man had intended to say did not pass his lips. Which was better for him else he would have killed him. Urrigon didn't want sadness as he ran to the hangars and locked the helmet of his battle-armour. Aeron was dead. He was going to avenge his brother. The blood of the greenlanders was weak, but an ocean of it would be a suitable offering to appease the wrath of the Void God when his brother's soul came to the dark halls below the abysses.

"Begin the procedure." The Ironborn captain said darkly once he and the fifteen reavers were installed and buckled under the security procedures. If the acceleration they had endured for the first part of their journey was fast, this one was going to be incredibly violent. Especially as they were in battle and a laser or a warhead impact could shatter their shuttle-sized transport without difficulty.

They left his longship and Urrigon gritted his teeth as the acceleration stuck their backs against the walls. There was no way to know their position between the two fleets. The boarding craft had no windows, nothing allowing its human cargo to see the stars. As a result, when the end of their journey it was with the dolorous impact against their target which almost knocked them out. It hurt, but Urrigon was feeling only rage. Their enemies needed to pay. He unharnessed and roared as the craft opened to reveal a corridor half-lighted.

"AT THEM AND KILL THEM ALL FOR THE VOID GOD!"

Not waiting to see if his reavers followed him, Urrigon rushed outside and decapitated a green-uniformed man who had tried to flee. Pitiful. A meagre suit-uniform of green and gold with a sort of tower emblem on the shoulders and a small side-arm? That was what they wanted to fight the Ironborn with? If he had been in a better mood, Urrigon would have beat them and made them his thralls. This would have been a fitting life for these gutless rats. But Aeron was dead and he wanted to make them pay. A patrol of five came in front of him in the same clothes and he slaughtered them all with his vibro-axe. The durasteel was soaked with blood. Urrigon urged his men to hurry behind, noting with disappointment either his bridge commanders had missed the coordination they had promised him before the battle...or the boarding craft had been knocked out of their intended path. Not that there was any way to verify. Something was jamming his communications between the King of Rum and this Reacher ship. But it wasn't worth worrying. He was going to capture their bridge, blow the head of their captain, give the crew to the Void God and then the death of his brother would be suitably avenged.

"For the Void God show no mercy! Clean this compartment and advance!"

The massacre in the corridors was rapid and complete. It took a few more seconds to finish the greenlanders and three plasma charges on the anti-blast doors gave them the access to the next government.

"There should be a hangar of shuttles and a plan of the ship at the next turn." Said Raven, one of his most bloodthirsty reavers. His armour was a Mark 15 of lower quality, but the multitude of skull decorations told every Ironborn this was a veteran of Lannisport and multiple successful attacks against the Westerners.

"In this case...FOR PYKE AND KING BALON!" The battle-cry came out of his mouth naturally and the assault force ran in the bloody and deserted corridor.

"KING BALON AND THE OLD WAY! WE DO NOT SOW!" Answered back the warriors, eager to pay the Iron Price.

Urrigon rushed in the shuttle hangar...and his eyes opened in shock. They were shuttles, yes. They were also a terminal of communications twenty metres away. But more importantly, there was between him and this object two massive lines of pristine green battle-armours all equipped with heavy weapons.

"Attack!" If they managed to reach close-quarters, maybe they had a chance.

"Death to the greenlanders!"

The entire line of the Reach soldiers fired and Urrigon screamed in pain as a lance of light got through his right leg. Two shots kicked him in the chest, making him thanks silently the present of his Lord Father. A new cry of pain came to his lips when three more shots took him on the arms and the front. Urrigon tried to conjure the darkest aspects of his rage but the pain superseded his will to fight. The Ironborn fell on his least injured knee. The ship appeared to be rolling. Or was it his senses playing him? His soldiers surrounded him, a sea of midnight blue agonising or screaming in pain.

 _What have I done? What was I thinking_?

His men needed him. Urrigon tried to raise his legs but his forces were abandoning him. Slowly but surely, the weight of his heavy battle-armour pushed him on his back. His vibro-axe and his guns were not in his hands anymore. He needed them back! He needed to fight. He needed to save Aeron! But everything seemed heavier and darker. The darkness and the Void God called him. There were voices out there, but he couldn't guess their meaning.

"Neutralise the big one and prepare a cell for him, he might be worth a ransom. Make sure the others are dead."

"What do we do with the corpses, Lord?"

"Prepare the incinerator."

 _Aeron...I'm sorry_.

* * *

 **Lord Lucerys Velaryon, 06.01.290AAC, Arbor System**

The bridge of the _Sword of Dragonstone_ had been transformed into a slaughterhouse. There were corpses of Ironborn and his men sprawled everywhere. On the consoles, the seats and the ground, lakes of blood repainted the fleet flagship in the colours of the Targaryen dynasty. The machines and the tactical display were utterly broken, their screens perforated with small sparks which augured nothing good being seen here and there. The Targaryen flag, trampled and torn, had served as an improvised pike which had impaled an Ironborn in a place no one sane wanted to be wounded.

Lucerys Velaryon coughed at the horrid odour of smoke, blood and death dirtying the atmosphere. Normally he shouldn't have smelt this but the helmet of his suit had gone somewhere in the furious melee with one of these hulking brutes. The same one who had killed Veryon. His twice-removed cousin who had served as his chief of staff had been thrown against the ruined astrogation section and was laying broken there with a large hole in his chest and an uncomprehending expression on his face. The rest of his adjutants had not fared better, their lifeless bodies sprawled in the positions where the impacts of the guns had crushed them.

"Lord, we have to go." The voice of Ser Rufus Staunton was tired. His white armour looked like it had gone to hell and come back for a rematch. The initial white colour had been overwritten by the black of Ironborn ammunition impacts and the blood of the scores of opponents he had killed. To his side stood the two other officers having survived the desperate fight on the bridge, with their suits in a similar state to his own. Much as the High Admiral wouldn't admit in public, the Kingsguard presence on the bridge was the only reason he was still breathing. The reavers scum had worn black matter-powered Mark 15, terribly dangerous for people in void suits but completely useless against an opponent in Terminator battle-armour.

"Yes..." As much as he wanted to stay with his cousin and wait for reinforcements there, he couldn't. The Ironborn were running loose aboard the _Sword of Dragonstone_ and Lucerys couldn't afford giving the Ironborn the small victory of taking him prisoner. Aside from the morale of the troops, there was the matter of the atrocities the mad reavers of Balon Greyjoy had in reserve for their highborn captives too. "Which is the nearest compartment with escape pods we still control?"

"I think the training rooms of the upper bridges are our best bet."

"So far?" It was nearly two hundred metres away and one level up. Not exactly a small distance to cover, ship of the line or not ship of the line.

"Unless you want to try the closest plasma battery." Grunted the Kingsguard. It was a low blow, the officers had been able to hear the agony screams from their seats on the bridge when three Ironborn detachments had boarded this section. Thankfully they had been able to void the entire compartment...an act which had only delayed the invaders by ten seconds as another enemy company had assaulted the bridge on the other side.

 _We will really have to modify the emplacement of our warships bridges when this war is over_ , thought the Master of Ships. _The Sword was badly damaged and their attacking craft are in the scores, but we should have defended better than that_! _In less than a minute they were able to attack our bridge_. _Maybe we should bury the critical stations at the heart near the fusion reactors. We've known the Northerners did it but we had never figured the reasons of their choices_.

"You win, Ser Rufus. Let's go."

They didn't go far the moment they left the _Sword of Dragonstone_ 's bloodied bridge. At the other extremity of the corridor leading to an elevator, a soldier in a red suit was butchered by two vibro-axes, the Ironborn laughing maniacally from the speakers of his midnight-class battle-armour. The screams of the dying man were evidence the vermin of the Iron Sector was taking pleasure in torturing the Crownlander.

The reaver immediately abandoned his abominable work once he saw them. With a loud roar and the habitual imbecility of not sowing anything, the armoured torturer ran to kill them. The lasers of four rifles interrupted this pathetic attempt and put him down for good. Really, two melee weapons and nothing to stop long-range weapons? But the noise had attracted new vultures. From the adjacent corridors and the ruined elevator, reavers and battered warriors bearing the sigils of Nobles Houses from the Iron Sector shouted their words and murderous battle-cries.

"Back!" Commanded Lucerys as Ser Rufus and his two last officers slaughtered five Ironborn. An insufficient kill-count as two scores more were now racing over their fellows' corpses, eager to spill more blood. "Back!" He shouted when Rufus Staunton made a step not backwards but forwards. But it was in vain. The Kingsguard did not obey his order and raced to meet the Ironborn, lone armour painted in the Ironborn's blood against an ocean of midnight.

For a moment, the Master of Driftmark had the naive hope the white sword could triumph. The Terminator battle-armour had been mangled but the Ironborn protections showed they too had had to fight their way through heavy resistance. The reavers were quite slow and inexperienced and while there were whispers at court that Staunton wasn't in the league of someone like Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Barristan Selmy, he was able to kill ninety per-cent of the duellists in this part of the galaxy with a vibro-sword. The Ironborn fell on his blade like they were target practises. Two by two or one by one, it made no difference. Soon they were forty more fresh Ironborn corpses in the corridor and Lucerys sighed in relief. This feeling alas was clearly too hasty because more of the damned pirates arrived by the nearby accesses.

 _How many in the Seven Hells have they sent to take the Sword of Dragonstone_?

"Bah, Ser Rufus can beat them!" Exclaimed the man to his right who had been until the boarding a third officer in the astrogation department. The Velaryon Admiral himself wasn't so sure. The Kingsguard was panting and breathing too fast, his armour had taken three or four more hits –in a corridor a man in Terminator armour was impossible to miss in such conditions. Moreover these Ironborn weren't injured or showing broken battle-armours but had dragon-shaped and gold helmets hanging at their belts.

The Ironborn didn't rush in this time. Instead they formed two lines at the intersection – definitely strange, Lucerys had had no idea reavers could even understand the idea of discipline. It was then that a colossus emerged from their ranks. From the get-go it was clear the man was taller than Rufus Staunton, battle-armour or no-battle-armour. In his left hand was a massive vibro-axe dripping with blood and promising untold violence. On the plastron of his battle-armour was painted an iron-coloured axe over a great golden kraken. A symbol the survivors of Lannisport had described as the personal banner of the Lord of Captain of the Iron Fleet.

 _Victarion Greyjoy_. _This isn't good_.

The lights flickered, remained lighted on a few seconds, before giving up and plunging the battlefield into penumbra. The sources of light left were the sparks made by destroyed machinery of his flagship and the red lenses covering the eyes of the reavers.

Suddenly the lights flickered on anew and the duel began.

"For King Rhaegar and the Iron Throne!" Roared Staunton. The knight of the Crown Sector held his sword with both hands and executed a powerful horizontal strike...which was parried almost absently by his opponent.

"The Void God!" Snarled back the Ironborn. "The Void God will be offered your soul!" The vibro-axe moved at a frightening speed and Rufus Staunton only parried at the last second. This however was just the prelude. The Greyjoy reaver had wielded his weapon with one hand and with the free one he punched the Kingsguard with a terrible blow. His opponent took several steps back with a grunt of pain.

The next exchange was even more unequal, with Victarion Greyjoy using his head to kick Ser Rufus and made him see the stars. Evidently, the white cloak was toyed with. The Lord Captain was playing with his opponent and simply waited the perfect moment to administer the coup-de-grace. And once the Kingsguard would be gone, it would be Lucerys and the rest of his officers' turn.

Well if this traitorous Ironborn believed that, Lucerys had a surprise for him. Drawing the parade vibro-sword to his side, the Lord of Driftmark ran to help his disadvantaged bodyguard. He wasn't fast enough. Seeing him close the distance, the Ironborn axe-wielder decided a duel at two-on-one was not to his taste. Staunton didn't see the next strike for the feint it was and contemplated incredulously the vibro-axe buried in his throat.

"It's not too late to surrender, High Admiral..." The mocking voice of the Ironborn enraged the Master of Ships. So it was like this?

"The Old, the True, the Brave!" Screamed Lucerys Velaryon, jumping over the countless corpses on the blood-stained corridor. The hippocampus-graved blade was lowered with a ridiculous angle. Victarion Greyjoy chuckled...before realising his vibro-axe had cut too deep in the Kingsguard's flesh and would not come out in time. Yet he raised his massive arms to protect his throat and his head, wishing to block with his heavy armour the strike to come. But this was not the target the Lord of House Velaryon had chosen.

The Velaryon blade cut deep into the Greyjoy's genital parts. Lucerys had used his vibro-sword as a parade weapon, but it was an alloy of durasteel and silverine bought in Myr, a weapon which had cost half of a month's income. Victarion Greyjoy screamed in agony. The sound was so powerful Lucerys was deafened and didn't react in time as two arms with the strength of industrial-made pliers sized him by the throat.

"You are going to suffer for this, greenlander." Rumbled the huge reaver, tightening his grip over him. The High Admiral had his reserves of air but managed to get a last sentence out.

"Not...like you...eunuch. My...men...are...going...to burn...Pyke."

The roar of anger expulsed from Victarion Greyjoy's mouth was the last thing Lucerys ever heard.

* * *

 **Lady Ynys Yronwood, 06.01.290AAC, Arbor System**

The longship they had fixed their tactical display on was struck by the combined fire of six light cruisers and over four scores of starfighters. This time, there was no mini-nova. The Ironborn longship shattered compartment by compartment, battery by battery. There was no great demise, no explosive end. The starship built in the shipyard of the Iron Sector simply died in a long and torturous fashion. There was a message to be learned there, but she felt she was missing it.

"Two more victories confirmed for our starfighters."

Cheers resonated among the orange-clad officers of the Sandy Path. Fists rose in the air and an entertaining song began to play in the background.

"Excellent! Rearm twenty for the fourth wave and tell them to concentrate on the squadron firing on the _Blood Royal_."

"By your command!"

The Iron Fleet was finished. Its crewmen were too stupid to know it, but from the view she was granted in the rear-guard, Ynys could see it. The Reach and Targaryens warships had been reorganised under Baelor Hightower and now the engagement was a one-sided carnage. The formidable ships of the line were concentrating their fire on two or three super-longships at the same time, helped by over two hundreds starfighters. The vast golden batteries of Oldtown were firing enough energy to reduce large asteroids to stone-sized debris and sterilise continents of an inhabitable planet. The battlecruisers, armoured cruisers and heavy cruisers continued to pound furiously the smaller longships while thousands of starfighters attacked in a superb choreography, inflicting more damage to the Greyjoy squadrons. Space was aflame as Greyjoy, Goodbrother, Harlaw, Sparr, Blacktyde, Volmark, Farwynd and Kenning warships rolled out of formation, their reactors in melt-down, entire sections opened to the void and their emergency communication crewmen screaming for someone to help them before they were reunited with their cursed Void God for all eternity. Under her eyes, one of the super-longships broke in two.

This was the end of the 'Iron King' ambitions. Balon Greyjoy had brought his entire fleet to the Arbor System and now over two-thirds of the ships he had begun the battle with were gone or so crippled any competent technician would declare them unsalvageable and transfer them to a scrap yard. A competent Admiral would have withdrawn long ago but whoever had been the brains on the Ironborn fleet was certainly not blessed with this quality. The first missile exchange had been bad enough. A warship of the Crown Sector severely damaged could receive emergency repairs in the Redwyne facilities. Not easily, but it could be done. A crippled longship would have to cross thousands of light-years in the Sunset Void, the nearest safe harbour being the system of Saltcliffe. The second barrage of lasers and missiles had been worse. The Ironborn had expended a lot of ammunition, far more than the allied fleet they were facing and their hulls had been lighter and less shielded. The losses had been in the hundreds and now the Ironborn were facing a complete debacle.

"The Ironborn boarding crafts are abandoning the _Sword of Dragonstone_."

"Took them long enough." The Yronwood Heiress took a moment to wonder if the High Admiral was still alive in the hulk which had been a ship of the line. Two Reach warships had tried sending reinforcements but their men had failed to report. The starfighters had shot scores of them, but it had not been enough. The fleet bridge had not answered for a long time, and there was a very likely possibility everyone was dead.

 _Bah, our King will have to find a new Master of Ships. Knowing the Targaryens, the replacement will be worse_.

Of course, even if the reavers had killed everyone aboard – unlikely as it had over six thousand spacemen and embarked infantry - the very fact they abandoned the Targaryen flagship proved how useless an endeavour this entire boarding affair had been. The Ironborn wouldn't have any prize to tow back to Pyke. Worse, they were now under the fire of a fleet which had time to reorganise and the longships weren't providing any cover now. In fact, their sensors were reporting that the Ironborn were dispersing, abandoning their loose formation one by one.

Seconds passed but it was only when the biggest part of the boarding parties were back aboard their ships – or dead in the void – that the last ten super-longships brutally changed course and increased their acceleration anew. A howl of triumph mounted from the Targaryen commanders on the communications as they saw their enemy break apart.

"Baelor Hightower is ordering the pursuit, my lady."

"Order the _Blood Royal_ and all our forces to target this super-longship." She ordered, selecting on her personal display the super-longship where about one-third of the surviving Ironborn crafts had docked.

"Order acknowledged, priority confirmed with Admiral Hightower's bridge." Affirmed a tactical officer. "Target is identified as the _Iron Victory_."

Ynys smiled at a mystery solved. So this was why the Ironborn in charge were just sounding the retreat. They hadn't wanted to abandon their commander on a dead warship.

 _But it is going to cost them_.

There weren't that many longships or super-longships able to escape. Their number was between fifty-three and fifty-seven, and all were damaged to various degree. Moreover, her starfighters and the single Yronwood ship of the line weren't the only ones concentrating on the infamous ship of one Victarion Greyjoy. A battlecruiser, four heavy cruisers, seven scout cruisers and over three hundred cruisers were pushing their engines at the limits of their capabilities in the hope they would catch it.

"We are going to catch it six minutes before the translation limit, my lady."

The remnants of the Iron Fleet had abandoned all pretences of continuing the fight. The survivors abandoned the tens of thousands reavers they had once called friends, fathers, brothers or comrades. On their heels came the Westerosi fleet, bombarding the slow and crippled longships, sending them directly into the jaws of Death. Minutes passed and the pursuit continued. No order came to call off what was more and more looking like vermin extermination. The Ironborn had gone too far this time and the vengeful Reachers and Crownlanders wanted to make them pay in blood and pain.

"The Iron Victory is in range."

"Finish it."

But as the first missiles were launched, a black wave of distortion surrounded the Iron Victory. Most of the Dornish, including Ynys, stared open-mouthed at the tell-tale sign of a void translation. Surely even an Ironborn wasn't that mad? The longship was still largely in the gravity dwell of the Arbor!

"Evasive action! Evasive action!" Ordered the officer in charge of the starfighter operations. Translations which were too close from a planet or a star were rarely pleasant affairs. And for a starfighter who was too close...

Light-speed communications being not instantaneous, more than a few starfighters, non-Dornish principally, did not heed the warning in time and got shattered by a momentous explosion.

The _Iron Victory_ disappeared out of existence. The large parts of its hull it left behind told Ynys the reavers were soon going to curse the manner they had chosen to depart the Arbor System.

"Too bad, I really would have liked celebrating our victory with his skull as a cup."

* * *

" _And now the Ironborn are going to be taught the price of betrayal_." Hand of the King Lord Walter Whent, 290AAC

* * *

 **Lord Wyman Manderly, 16.01.290AAC, Arbor System**

"When the Ironborn are attacking somewhere, they don't do it half-way." Commented Davos Seaworth.

It was alas an accurate assessment. The systems of Lannisport, Fair Isle, Greyshield and now the Arbor were going to bear the scars of this Rebellion for a long time. And not all these injuries were going to be physical. Tens of thousands had died here. Like in the Last Rebellion the North had participated, this kind of events left their marks on your soul. Bitterness for all the friends and families lost. Regret for the innocent who had been caught in the crossfire. Anger for the murderous brutes who had unleashed the winds of war for the sole reason they weren't satisfied by their place in the Seven Sectors.

The Ironborn did not do things half-way, this was evidence. They had for the moment convinced the Great Houses of the West and the Reach to forget their niggardly politic games at the capital. Instead of a fracturing realm, House Greyjoy had temporarily united rivals.

"Indeed." Agreed Wyman, taking his first bite of the large chocolate cake honouring his dining table of its presence. "I am glad we weren't there when Balon Greyjoy decided it was time to destroy his Iron Fleet in the most unforgettable manner available to him."

The holographic screens of his bridge were retransmitting him a very precise image of the hundreds of thousands tons of wreckage floating in the void. This was the space battlefield of the Arbor, hundreds of hulks floating empty and powerless, waiting for someone to claim them back or put them out of their misery. Most of the rescue operations directed at the thousands of escape pods and the crippled starships were finished ten days after the battle.

Now the salvage operations were truly beginning. Surrounded by the vigilant presence of the Redwyne Navy, the tugs, repair ships and mobile dockyards were towing away the least damaged warships of the Reach and Crown navies. At their side were other less reputable companies which were busy dismantling or converting into raw materials the abandoned longships and super-longships. Westerosi cruisers would be repaired if it was humanly possible but once Lord Paxter Redwyne had returned enraged to his home, the decision had been taken that not a single longship in the Arbor would be left intact for the Ironborn to reclaim. A decision his subordinates had enforced with enthusiasm and great fervour.

"Have the Redwynes gave you an accurate estimation of their own losses?" The Northern Admiral ate a second part of the cake before slurping in delectation.

"No, Admiral." Affirmed the former smuggler. "It seems our common past history has not left them inclined to cooperate."

The Lord of White Harbor chuckled. Good to know the Redwynes were still pissed about his captain running circles around their void blockade of Storm's End. These former neighbours of House Manderly had become dangerously predictable. And in a war, predictability meant more often than not an explosive death.

"Forgetting a moment the long history of defeats they have against my ships..." This time most of the armsmen aligned against the walls laughed out loud. "Their boasts that the Iron Fleet has been entirely destroyed is not far from the truth. Over seven hundred longships and eighty super-longships have been confirmed destroyed or captured."

"Damn." Wyman felt a point of disappointment. The chances of the Ironborn to weaken Rhaegar's hold on the Sunset Void were pretty much gone after such a beating. They were still a few sellsails and pirate fleets from the Basilisk Sector or Essos in the game, but those wouldn't last long against a vengeful Redwyne fleet. "How many died here?"

"The local copper-counters are still trying to figure the exact numbers but most agree it was at least eight hundred and eighty one thousand dead." Davos replied with a grim face. Enemies or not, this was a bloodbath rarely reached in months-long space campaigns, never mind a single-day battle. "They have also one hundred and nine thousand prisoners of war, including one of Balon's own brothers and five of his Lords. But the 'Iron King' and his Lord Captain have managed to escape...though the latter has received grave injuries."

"Ah? They have videos to prove it?" A third part of cake found its way to his mouth.

"Oh, yes." The man born in the slums of the capital world did not hide his amusement. "They have the videos of pretty much every fight aboard the _Sword of Dragonstone_. You should watch them; there is a very interesting duel between the deceased High Admiral and Victarion 'Ironless balls'."

"Mhh...Send it to my console I will watch it once my conference with the Reach Admirals is over. Is that all?"

The visage of the _Selkie_ 's commanding officer was more hesitant this time.

"It may be nothing, but our agents at King's Landing have not seen any sign of Princess Visenya Targaryen's yearly departure for Winterfell. Lord Stark had already informed us there had been delays blamed on the war but-"

"But Rhaegar has chosen to break his word. Again."

This was a breach of the treaties at Maidenpool. Well, another breach if one was to be impartial – not that the Targaryen cronies, lackey and bootlickers would be that when their silver-haired bastard of a master was concerned. The initial agreement had been that Baela Targaryen would pass eight months at Winterfell and four at King's Landing for a standard year once she reached the age of five. In reverse, her twin sister would go to the ancestral Stark home four months a year and stay with her rapist of a father eight months. The process should have started in 288AAC and the North has respected the terms. Twice between 288AC and today, the young girl in their custody had been escorted from the Northern Sector to the Crown possessions and back. To Wyman's best knowledge, Lord Paramount Eddard Stark and his niece Visenya Targaryen had never been in the same sector for the last seven years. Given recent events, the chances of the Dragon King changing this trend were so tiny even the sensors of the _Selkie_ wouldn't be able to distinguish them.

"Formidable." The big-boned Northerner sighed. "And they dare insult us when we say they're honourless and faithless bastards..."

The Targaryen dynasty had broken so many treaties and accords with the North in the last three hundred years Wyman honestly wondered if they operated like this by tradition and not by sheer arrogance or stupidity. Unfortunately for them, the Starks and the rest of the North kept excellent records...and the grudges which went with them.

"We're going to have so much fun." And with this the Master of the Northern Deep Space Fleet seized a miniature apple pie and swallowed it whole.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Sunset Void, 17.01.290AAC**

There were many theories on the subject of failures afflicting a void translation. And that was what they had stayed for centuries: theories. Scientists and geniuses of all eras from the Valyrian Freehold to the Summer Sector had never manifested a powerful will to see if it was possible to save a starship from a void translation gone wrong. After all, if a jump translation between two inhabited systems failed, two things happened: best case the ship was staying where it was, not having moved a millimetre. Or it translated and generally you had to buy a new jump generator. If the securities failed, sometimes the ship arrived piece by piece at the other jump point. But with the technology becoming more and more reliable, these disastrous accidents were on the decrease.

A void translation was far more dangerous because instead of sending a starship for a brief period of time – generally measured in seconds – in a different level of reality, the hull would have to endure days and maybe months where humans couldn't live. And it was only the first problem. The question of time was primordial, but it paled before the issue of the destination. Somehow, the void sensors had still to avoid the gravity dwells of the planets, the black holes, the comets, the cosmic storms and plenty of phenomena able to destroy a warship in less time it took to say it. A captain commandeering a conventional transport could either arrive to his destination or stay where he was. A void translation which went wrong could arrive in theory anywhere. In theory. In practise, the fuel reserves of the reactors limited the range, as did the reliability of the void generators and the integrity of the hull.

Still, what happened to a starship whose captain decided to violate the laws of physics – laws every responsible trainee knew by heart - was commonly known when the rescue parties found the cloud of debris decades after the incident. Thus when the _Iron Victory_ decided to translate before the most conservative translation-limit in order to escape a pursuit it couldn't survive, the common agreement of the men sworn to the Hightowers and the Targaryens was 'good riddance'. The ship of the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet was dead. It just hadn't realised it yet.

The judgement had been a bit hasty but not by much. As the great super-longship reintegrated the galactic plane, from prow to stern hundreds of alarms and sirens screamed. Entire compartments were opened to the void. Three-quarters of its armament was in ruins. Half of the big golden kraken which had served as a prow figure had been lost. The communications antennas and systems were so shattered even a full year in a modern shipyard might not be enough for the repairs. The core of the ship structure had resisted but only just. Three of the four black-matter reactors were powerless. The void generators had to be extinguished with tons of carbon foam least they exploded. Of the two thousand nine hundred and fifteen souls of its original crew, exactly six hundred and two souls lived.

But the Iron Victory lived. Somewhat. The pride of the Pyke armada was a bloodied carcass. It had no way to contact everyone. The translation had sent them so far off course that even Farwynd mad adventurers had never gone so far out in the void. Its autonomy was measured in days at best.

On a bed in the devastated infirmary wing, a man was murmuring with his eyes closed and a mad smile.

"The Void God is with us...the Void God is with us...the Void God has answered our calls..."

* * *

 **Sandor Clegane, 28.02.290AAC, Fair Isle System**

The mountain of corpses was huge. Sandor had never seen one before his arrival on Fair Isle but the last months had provided plenty of opportunities to see them. Thousands of corpses wearing the Ironborn midnight-clad armour were piled there, ready to be thrown in the mass graves.

Too bad his brother wasn't among them.

But this would come in time. It would all come in time. Gregor would pay for the deaths of their sister. The Beast would die and the galaxy would be a better place. He needed to be patient. Lieutenant Sarring had told him no one would support a vicious dog, especially one without support and ready to bite the hand who fed him. Sandor needed to become better. As several veterans of Lannisport and the Twins had pointed out during the campaign, fighting the Beast of Carnage in duel was an act no one had survived to tell the tale. The Monster of the Lannisport orbital was hellishly fast and could endure wounds which would have killed an entire company. It was nothing new for him. He knew what a monster Gregor was; he had known it well before his brother had plunged his head into the fires of the Seven Hells. In the name of vengeance, he would need to be the best warrior of the Seven Sectors. But not a knight. Never a knight. The Beast was a knight, and if it didn't prove what a great joke knighthood was, nothing would.

"The Lannisport armies muster, Hound." Grated Raff Preslan in his ears. Turning his head, Sandor watched the only Westerner so far which could not beat him in a contest of beauty. The furious fights on Fair Isle had not been good for the old warrant officer's visage. The Lieutenant had had to save his life four times and two had been very close affairs. "Stop dreaming and go back to the barracks. We leave in an hour."

"It's confirmed then?"

"Yes. Orders from our lords and masters have come. We are regrouping for the assault on Pyke."


	9. The Fall of Pyke

**Greyjoy Rebellion Arc**

 **Chapter 5**

 **The Fall of Pyke**

 _After the Battle of the Arbor, the outcome of the Greyjoy Rebellion was no longer in doubt. A few sellssail and pirate fleets may continue to be nuisances across the length of the Sunset Void, but for all intent and purposes the Iron Fleet and the rest of the longships mustered by King Balon Greyjoy had suffered a grievous blow._

 _The Redwyne navy and the rest of the Westerosi fleets were by no means ready to counter-attack at once, having taken significant casualties in the last battles. But the damaged warships were next to the greatest and best equipped shipyards of the Reach. A crippled Crown or Reach battlecruiser could and would be put back into active service in a couple of months. Their enemies, on the other hand, would have to withdraw to the Iron Sector if they wanted to repair._

 _The figures made grim reading for the Ironborn._

 _Under the orders of Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy, the Iron Fleet and its subaltern forces had begun their rebellions with roughly one thousand and two hundred warships on 16.10.289AAC. A few captured warships of the Western Navy had been added after Lannisport but priority was given to the civilian ships formerly belonging to the Lannisters. The Iron King required many transports to send his troops on a series of grand conquests and the longships available were deemed more than acceptable to accomplish all the objectives fixed._

 _On 24.02.290AAC, the full scale of the disaster the Iron Fleet had taken at Pyke was at last acknowledged. The Ironborn forces had been totally destroyed. One hundred and seventy-nine longships still existed, accompanied by sixty-five super-longships. But these numbers weren't describing the full picture. Eighty of the former were so full of holes that making them battle-worthy was a doomed endeavour. Thirty-five of the latter were capital ships only in name as moving at a snail's pace was impossible for them._

 _To sum-up the magnitude of the defeat, not only Balon Greyjoy had lost eighty per-cent of his fleet in less than a year, but the twenty per-cents which remained had half of their effectives crippled. The space battles fought in the Reach had also been a catastrophe for the Ironborn manpower reserves. In their desperate quest to find experienced personnel, Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy and commanders like Lord Urrathon Blacktyde had emptied the damaged hulls of their crew to compensate for the losses taken around Fair Isle and the Shield Sub-Sector. After the Arbor, these policies came back to haunt the surviving Ironborn. Not only Pyke had not the money and the materials to build a new fleet, they hadn't the capacity to repair and crew what lied in their orbital docks. Millions of men had been lost and while King Balon Greyjoy boasted they had hurt deeply the greenlanders, the Iron Throne had a sum of talents and industrial might to draw on that the Ironborn lacked._

 _The bad news didn't end there. Lord Victarion Greyjoy and his flagship the Iron Victory had disappeared in the void, and while the brother of King Balon would resurface two years later at Tyrosh, the Ironborn were now deprived of his military leadership. Not that he was the only Greyjoy missing. Urrigon Greyjoy had been made prisoner at the Arbor and Aeron Greyjoy was confirmed killed in the battle fought in the Redwyne stellar system. When one added the death of Robin and Maron Greyjoy to the list, the House of the Kraken was getting smaller month after month._

 _Of course Balon Greyjoy could always name a new Lord Captain – Lord Urrathon Blacktyde, one of his fiercest supporters, was promoted to the post on 28.02.290AAC. But the office was now devoid of prestige and ships to command. While there were many longships in various conditions to order around, said starships were not under the command of the Lord Captain anymore. The thrashing of the Iron Fleet had not only destroyed the chances of the Ironborn to make a successful bid for independence; it had also crippled the hammer making sure the difficult bannersmen wouldn't try to contest their King's orders._

 _Knowing in their hearts and their minds that the fleets of the Targaryen dynasty were coming for them, every lord of importance now wanted his longships and his men home. House Harlaw and its lord were the first to withdraw completely from the Greyjoy war effort, with some historians arguing the move started well before the Battle of the Arbor was lost. Twenty-nine warships, each of them battle-worthy, would defend the Harlaw System and not the ancestral seat of House Greyjoy. The Noble Houses of Goodbrother, Farwynd, Kenning, Merlyn, Saltcliffe and Sparr returned to their fortresses and prepared for the storm to come, letting only debris of their proud formations in the service of their liege. Pyke would be defended not by two hundred warships but by an eighty-strong starship force and many hulls were patched from prow to stern with prayers and whatever resources the engineers had on hand._

 _The Iron King remained defiant however, despite the strings of military defeats now attached to his name. The forces of House Volmark, Blacktyde, Botley and Wynch were still loyal, and with the warriors of his House King Balon remain convinced he could make Rhaegar Targaryen and his commanders pay dearly for any assault launched against Pyke. True, the number of space assets had been drastically reduced but Pyke was defended by more than longships. One hundred and thirty orbital fortresses and uncountable laser, plasma and missile platforms were spread all over the system. The two asteroid belts every attacker had to cross to access Pyke were filled with mines and lethal surprises. The five gargantuan Blackstone Fortresses were orbiting the capital planet, and in their millennia-old batteries the power to shatter entire armadas remained. And should the attacker manage to touch ground, well it was too bad...for them._

 _The home of House Greyjoy was a planet terribly unfavourable for the offensive. High mountains, high plateau, abrupt cliffs, a lot of volcanic activity and valleys where the air was particularly toxic and a lot of dark and stony relief formed the majority of the landscape on Pyke. Gravity was far heavier than the norm, the air was difficult to breathe for outsiders and water was scarce. This was not a terrain for grand armoured battles but it was perfect for the bloodbath the Head of House Greyjoy wanted to give to the Westerosi loyalists. And if the Iron Fleet had been seriously damaged, the Army had still many troops to defend their positions thanks to Lord Rodrik Harlaw evacuation of Fair Isle. Nearly forty-six million Ironborn had been armed and were ready to kill for their sovereign and the Old Way. This was of course a tiny number compared to the unending waves of veterans and recruits the Iron Throne was going to unleash against the Iron Sector. It was doubtful King Balon Greyjoy cared. The Kraken King had always been a prideful man, and his willingness to boast that one Ironborn was worth ten greenlanders was a clear sign surrender had never been in his mind while at the same time his grumbling bannersmen were preparing to ask for terms._

 _The Ironborn were not going to fight at ten against one but at eighty against one. And no matter their bravery, their courage and their insanity, these were not odds anyone could beat by conventional tactics. The commanders were ready, the nightmarish battle could commence._

 _And it would be remembered for years under one name._

 _The Fall of Pyke._

From the Greyjoy Rebellion by Yzabel Tendao, 298AAC.

* * *

 **Lord Richard Lonmouth, 05.04.290AAC, Banefort System**

If he didn't know any better, Richard would have almost believed they had already won the war.

On the other side of the bay where he was drinking his glass of Arbor Red, hundreds of warships were firing their batteries in salute for every squadron coming in front of them. This was the kind of fireworks costing millions of gold dragons and the fuel the great ships of the line and their escorts consumed each hour was certainly not inconsequential.

But the Lord of the Storm Sector was forced to admit it was extremely impressive. The Banefort System was full of starships, from the smallest raven-drone couriers to the gigantic and cumbersome conveyors weighting millions of tons. Hundreds of warships classes were represented. There were thousands of scout cruisers and lights cruisers to surround the main units of the battle-line. The carriers had come in such numbers that the fleet was going to be able to launch tens of thousands starfighters once the order was given. Between the Dragonstone, Hightower, Redwyne and Grafton Deep Space Fleets, the space assets of the Iron Throne would have already been powerful but they were supplemented by more conventional elements of every Sector. Hundreds of millions tons of durasteel had been mustered on this endeavour and they were just the tip of the formidable sword. They were more hulls on their way, new constructions or damaged ships released from the Casterly Rock and Arbor shipyards. There were tens of thousands transports, hundreds of ammunitions ships, hospital ships, repair ships and other specialist designs like purpose-built units to install monitoring stations.

This was the hard fist of the Iron Throne, a force so powerful he honestly doubted that King Balon Greyjoy had understood the kind of enemy he was making when he began his rebellion.

"You shouldn't look so tense, Lord Lonmouth. You aren't going to be on the first lines when we land on Pyke."

Perhaps Richard could have truly taken this sentence with the seriousness it deserved if his interlocutor had not the instant after swallowed two caramel pastries. Abandoning his observation of the crowded space around the Banefort orbital stations, the Lord of Lonmouth tried to keep a calm face as a large part of chocolate cake followed the same path.

"Ahhh..." The moan of satisfaction from Lord Manderly was not feigned. "Truly the food of this banquet is fit for a King!" And on this the Northern Admiral began to slice an apple pie.

On every side of the long tables where dozens of Admirals, Captains, Generals, Colonels, Brigadiers and Marshals dined, murmurs spread of the depravity and the awful manners of the Northerners. The Lord of White Harbour did not seem to care. The fat Northern lord was not deaf, his jovial discussions with Captain Davos Seaworth on his right proved it. But for the present the senior representative of the Northern navy was focusing on the sweets and pastries, ignoring superbly the litany of ugly names a Hightower General was giving him behind his back.

For the tenth time of the evening, Richard wondered what sort of insults he had unintentionally given to his Lord Paramount for him to be seated here. Really, he had to have made some mistake or offending things – at least in Jon prideful mind. To his right was Lord Thurgood Cafferen, who had become more annoying and loud-mouthed since Fawnton...a difficult challenge but one the seventeen name days youngster had achieved hands down. If one continued to the right, the seat of Ser Axell Florent, Regent of Brightwater Keep, was there. A stout man with his large arms and legs, Axell Florent was ugly of visage and body. He had a double chin, extremely large ears, a prominent nose and close-set eyes. Everything in his appearance breathed ambition and listening to him an astute observer could be forgiven to think he had the Lord of the Brightwater System in front of him. If Richard was the young Lord Florent, he would sleep lightly and pay expensively the guards charged of his protection. Axell Florent, or Lieutenant-General Ser Axell Florent as preferred to be addressed, did not look like the kind of man who was going to wait all his life to play a second role.

On Richard's left was Lord Antario Jast, a Western Lord who until now had been utterly out of favour with Lord Tywin Lannister. The Vice-Admiral had been put on half-pay after the Lightning-Lion-Operation-which-definitely-not-happened and his presence in the invasion force was more due to the astronomical needs of the Lannisters to find commanders than a wish for the Lions to forget and forgive. Further left were minor Houses of the Vale Sector. All were former loyalists who had been crushed when Robert Baratheon the Usurper and his Arryn friends had decided to abandon their loyalties to the Iron Throne. Unlike Lord Gerold Grafton who sat at the Grand Table next to Lord Mathis Rowan, those men were viewed with suspicion since they had been on the other side when the Battle of the Trident was waged.

And of course in front of him were the three Northerners. Lord Wyman Manderly and his table manners were bad enough, but it looked like the Lord of White Harbor had come with the most likely figures able to ulcer the Great Lords and the King himself. The arrival of Captain Davos Seaworth had reopened old wounds for the Redwyne Navy. While the Ironborn had recently become the top enemy, Paxter and his commanders had not digested the humiliation the smuggler had given them around Storm's End. Stannis Baratheon may have been forced to surrender by his own men –and wasn't it interesting that the Lord's of Storm's End was at the opposite of the dining hall of the _Royal Dragon_? – but the Redwyne Admirals had never caught Davos. And when the Peace of Maidenpool had concluded with the smuggler pardoned...well, a lot of screams and imprecations had been heard from the Arbor.

Finally there was the third Northerner. A grey-bearded man of average stature and an unremarkable face, he had presented himself in front of the whole royal court as a 'humble advisor'. This time, it had been the septons and the septas present who had gritted their teeth. Advisor the man may be, but the dark green robes he wore and the pendant of a lightning struck by thunder worn around the neck made no secret of his true allegiance.

The 'advisor' was a Green Man and his presence here in the middle of war preparations violated countless edicts written by the Conqueror and the Conciliator. It was incredibly worrying and not just because the Manderlys were supposed to worship the Seven. Lord Manderly would not have brought the Priest-Warrior of the Old Gods here without Lord Stark's backing. And if the Lord Paramount was willing to challenge King Rhaegar on this, what else was the North was preparing away from the eyes of the realm?

It was this moment Thurgood Cafferen seized to insult Lord Manderly in the animated debate he held with Ser Axell Florent. Richard Lonmouth had not followed the discussion and thus didn't know when the exchange had turned to sensitive subjects but when he heard the last sentences it was way too late to redirect the small talk on safer topics. Besides, a lot of alcohol had already been drunk by the Storm and Reach lords involved in the debate.

"I don't understand why the King tolerates these traitors, General." Even with the best will of the world, the tone of the youngster could be best described as whiny and arrogant. "Most of their forces are staying at home like the cowards they are." The Northern lord stopped reluctantly his polite discussion with a Vale Captain, swallowed another part of pie and then looked at the Lord of Fawnton with a jovial smile. Thurgood Cafferen didn't like at all being mocked and his visage reddened.

"You find amusing my accusations of cowardice?"

"Oh, absolutely." Without breaking eye contact, the Admiral of the Northern fleet poured wine in his empty crystal glass. "I was at the Trident, boy." The last word was pronounced with a different inflexion, and the Storm Lord only then realised how cold the Northerner eyes had become. "I've fought and battled to survive the carnage. Survive one battle and we will see how much bravery you gain on the battlefield."

He dearly hoped Thurgood was not going to do something stupid in front of the thousands of Lords gathered here. The red shade colouring his cheeks and his forehead was not promising. But after a few more seconds, the Cafferen youngster broke eye contact and whispered to Axell Florent the word 'barbarians'. The arrogant young man did not notice the slight frown of the Green Man or the short and disgusted expression of Seaworth. Truly, the Master of Fawnton had a gift to multiply his number of friends.

Still, he had a duty to his Lord Paramount and his King, and said allegiance did not include letting his table devolve in a continuation of the feuds created in the last Rebellion. He did not want the advice or the support of men who had decided their loyalty stood with the Starks and not the Targaryens, but it was better to show feelings of unity.

"What is your opinion of the proposed battle-plan we were told this morning, Lord Wyman?"

The joviality had entirely returned to the Northerner eyes and for one instant Richard was almost ready to believe the ancient exiled Reach House was just a group of obese gluttons. Almost.

"A fine plan to rid us of our Ironborn problem." The remark was made after taking a sip of Arbor Red. "I found the name well-chosen. Operation Firestorm, yes a fitting name to destroy these pirates."

Well, it wasn't the litany of compliments Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell's circle had told when the details of the operation had been revealed but it would have had to do. This thought had only crossed his mind that the fat and large Northerner opened his mouth again.

"But I can't avoid thinking that life must be cheap in the Southern Sectors." Mused the bannersman of Winterfell, grabbing the last part of the chocolate cake on their table section. "Are Lord Lannister and Lord Tyrell trying to drown Balon Greyjoy in a sea of corpses?"

* * *

 **Euron Greyjoy, 07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

"The Andals had truly a love for the number seven. They worshipped seven gods even though several are different facets of a man and a woman's life. A week is seven days. The Kingsguard includes seven of the best fencers in the Seven Sectors. In all the battles they rewrote, they won in seven charges and thus proved their greatness. It wouldn't do at all to reveal they won by treachery and underhanded tricks after all. They followed seven stars to come to these lands. They had seven great heroes though no Great Sept can agree on their identities. They had seven great heirloom of Hugor of the Hill...a pity they lost so many in their futile wars against the First Men. By war and marriage, they conquered seven kingdoms but two escaped their greedy hands.

Yes, seven is a curious number, full of symbolism. A pity I have only five Blackstone Fortresses to accomplish my ascension."

No one in the command room dared raise his voice to agree or contradict him. Good. He had been forced to make a lot of painful and excruciating examples in the last days and his pride would have been vexed the enforced discipline was broken at his moment of triumph.

Truly Balon should have thanked him. The ranks of the Pyke garrison had seen thousands of defections in the aftermath of Victarion gigantic failure in the Battle of the Arbor. Morale was at rock bottom, the productivity of the shipyards and the factories had plummeted and local thrall uprisings were growing in frequency. Every fault could be laid at his brother's feet. Lannisport had been a glorious success but Balon had been unwilling to accept the economic realities of life. No, he hadn't proposed to sell the thousands of prisoners to Slaver's Bay just to spite a few lords. The Iron Sector needed reliable manpower to fight the ongoing war, a source of funds that they hadn't antagonised and a way to access the resources the mainland wouldn't give them until this conflict was ended. If his offer had been accepted, Euron would have hired an army of the dreaded Death Corps of the Unsullied and a fleet of Jade privateers. This way they would have really bled the lizards trying to disguise themselves as dragons!

But the 'Iron King' had refused, leaving him the only choice to put down the realist and the dissenters, feeding their very life essence to the Soulstone and enforcing a regime of terror in one move.

A powerful alarm resonated in the control room and an officer in midnight-blue threw himself to Euron's feet.

"Speak." The Crow's Eye said after a few seconds, savouring the moment. The reaver had accepted its place in the order of things...soon the entirety of Westeros would accept it too.

"My Prince, the sector 5-82E reports a large number of contact drives directly on the bearing you told us to watch."

"Excellent!" Magic was truly a potent force but it didn't cost him anything to verify it by other sources. "Their strength?" He asked a second officer who threw himself to the ground in the same manner as his comrade.

"Preliminary estimations are detecting over six thousand and eight hundred contacts, my Prince."

The Targaryens and the myriad of factions which for the moment pretended to be their allies had come in force. Not that it was unexpected, oh no. Balon plans had only managed to wound the machine of war in service of the lions and the roses. And it had been a light wound, Euron had known it from the start. Lannisport had never been the arsenal of the West. The Shield Sub-Sector was just a shield, not a production centre or a training facility. Casterly Rock, Oldtown, the Arbor, Dragonstone...these were systems which mattered. But without the support of the Starks, Arryns and Baratheons, the prospect of winning – or at the very least of preserving the Iron Sector's independence – had never been realistic. A conventional conflict would see House Greyjoy lose a hundred times out of a hundred against a united Westeros. This was evident to a dim-witted child but clearly his eldest brother had never reached this level of intelligence.

"Prepare the Crow Soulstone and the sacrifices."

Eight of the warriors he had cut the tongue and inducted forcefully on the _Silence_ left the control room. They had been over and over 'prepared' for this day and Euron had no fear they would accomplish his orders. In a few seconds, his command was going to be transmitted to the four other Blackstone fortresses.

The majority of the crewmen around him didn't know of course what he intended to do. The Crow's Eye had whispered in their ears of a grand weapon able to destroy the incoming invasion force and how it had been delicious to taste the tiny lights of hope blossom in their eyes. He had played many songs with his violin surrounded by his women that night.

The best part was that it wasn't a lie at all. His ascension and the killing of the five thousand five hundred and fifty-five sacrifices were indeed going to destroy the Targaryen armada...as well as the best part of Pyke and every Ironborn living on it. One could not become a God and be cheap on the process of destruction after all.

"Second contact, my Prince. Over eight thousands contacts, many of the signatures are transports and support units. They have hundreds of scout cruisers and escort carriers protecting them."

"First contact is launching its starfighters, my Prince." Reported in a monotone voice a crippled old man fixing his screen.

"We have a message of Prince Rodrik Greyjoy incoming." Declared one of the five men assigned to the communications. There was a pause of roughly ten seconds, the time to read and assimilate the message. "My Prince, your nephew is telling you his men are ready to fight."

Euron laughed. This was too good. His nephew was telling him he was ready to fight? Truly Balon had masterfully trained his sons to be thoughtless brutes and unthinking reavers. The mobile defences under Rodrik had sixty-four longships and fifteen super-longships, and one-third were in such a state they could not accelerate and fire at the same time. The enemy had over six thousand-plus warships. There were times when courage and bravery were useful. This was not one of these times. But if his nephew wanted a glorious suicide charge, so be it. Euron was a good uncle, wasn't he? Let Balon truly eat his words of 'what is dead may never dies'.

"Acknowledge the message and encourage him to attack at the moment the greenlanders are passing by the second asteroid belt." Right at the moment the enemy admirals would think an ambush was most likely to be sprung. "Tell him the eyes of every Ironborn of Pyke are on him." With the big explosions this was going to make, it could hardly be otherwise.

Several of the officers looked distinctly ill-at-ease and a couple were trembling when he finished speaking. Euron made sure to remember all of them. Loyalty to a young imbecile would get them a very painful reminder once he was granted the power he deserved.

"Update my tactical display." The son of Quellon Greyjoy ordered before marching to his black seat – soon he would replace it with a black throne.

The system of Pyke and the various military forces defending and attacking it materialised. The Ironborn units were coloured in gold and had the kraken emblems above them. The enemy was in red and had various insulting comments and parodies of the greenlanders banners. This would have been amusing if it did not mean several officers and programmers had spend their time doing these holographic projections instead of doing the tasks he had given them.

Besides, the amusement was really tempered by how few gold icons were present compared to the gigantic red wave assaulting Pyke. The first asteroid belt, including the four secret shipyards and the twelve fortresses dissimulated in it, had already fallen without inflicting more than desultory losses. Two Reach light cruisers were gone and five other warships showed signs of damage. In return, they had lost over forty thousand workers, garrison soldiers and billions dragons of investment...evidently not an exchange favourable for House Greyjoy.

A lesser man would have asked how such a fiasco was possible and the answer once again could be given in one word: Balon. Balon Greyjoy, the stubborn Kraken, who believed that as long as they were on the offensive, there was no need to be worried about the security of Pyke. Ironically it had been one of the first occasions Euron had heard Victarion –of all commanders! – protest that there were taking too much qualified spacemen out of their peacetime jobs for the offensives. The result was that too many fortresses were undermanned, undersupplied – or not supplied at all – and forts which should have held ships of the line were now crippled and reduced to nothing by light cruisers.

One hour later and it was the turn of the second line of defences to shatter. The battlecruisers and heavy cruisers of the River and Western Sector led the charge and Euron saw the winces of his subordinates as tens of thousands more died. Forty old fortresses, ten new mining operations and two shipyards were gone. They had destroyed a dozen scout cruisers, two hundred starfighters and two battlecruisers...overall a price nine out of ten Admirals would find perfectly acceptable to pay for such a quick victory. And now it left only the fortresses defending the planet itself.

"Rodrik is going to ravage them!" Grumbled a one-armed veteran fixing his screen. Euron sighed. So little discipline...was it a surprise the Ironborn kept losing every war since the death of Harren Hoare? Anyway he drew his pistol and shot the loud-mouthed idiot three times in the back. Failure to comply with his instructions meant death, he had warned them beforehand.

"Let this be a warning to all of you." And he accompanied this threat with a good old smirk. The Ironborn in the room and those in contact by holo-video caught the message and started working harder. Yes, shooting one man to encourage the others worked.

This was the moment the arrogant youngster he had been forced to call his nephew sprang his 'ambush'. The longships were anything but furtive and their damaged black-matter reactors were highly visible for a competent operator. The Reach vanguard which led for the moment the Targaryen fleet knew where they were, and two seconds after the _Kraken of Blood_ opened fire hundreds of Hightower, Tyrell, Redwyne, Rowan and other Noble Houses' warships replied with a storm of missiles which almost overwhelmed the sensors overseeing the battlefield.

It was not a battle. Implying it was one would recognise Rodrik Greyjoy had had a chance of winning.

The first salvo of the Ironborn destroyed three scout cruisers, one light cruiser, one heavy cruiser and inflicted serious damage on a battlecruiser. The counter-fire wiped out half of the longships and six of the super-longships.

There was no coordinated second salvo for the Ironborn mobile force. The _Kraken of Blood_ had disappeared into an explosion of light, sending to oblivion Rodrik Greyjoy and thousands of reavers. And as more and more battlecruisers and ships of the line arrived in range, the longships met their end.

Two more Reach scout cruisers exploded in apocalyptic fury and the damaged battlecruiser emerged dying from the battering it had received. But ten minutes later, none of the longships were anything more than broken parts, orbital debris and coronas of gases and plasma.

"Well. The eyes of the Iron Sector are on him, no mistake." Euron slowly stood from his seat. "I am going to see the preparations of my weapon. Make sure everything is-"

Despite knowing a lot of things were possible with magic, Euron could honestly say he was totally taken aback when the man he had just killed groaned and threw himself on the operator to his right. Blood flowed and the victim of the not-so-dead screamed in agony.

Then it turned its head towards him and the Crow's Eye shivered for the first time in a decade. Dead blue eyes fixed him...blue, merciless and betraying something of unimaginable cruelty.

It was impossible. A wight should not be here, could not be here. The magical protections ingrained in the creation of the Wall should make this act of necromancy impossible.

 _Unless...unless They are here_. _But how_?

For the first time, he concentrated his powers in presence of common Ironborn and delivered a ray of pure darkness against the wight. The creature didn't die easily; it took all his will to engulf it in black flames piece by piece. But the damage had already been done. The Ironborn who had been completely and utterly terrified of him seconds ago were now all too willing to challenge him if it meant escaping these unnatural corpses. The first wight had also managed to kill two men...which meant seconds later two wights rose from the ground and threw themselves on the living.

Desperate communications from the other Blackstone fortresses told him this was true concerted attack. And if it was...the Crow Soulstone was in danger. His ascension was in danger. Euron started to run towards the room of the ritual. Maybe there was a chance his plans of godhood were salvageable.

Just as if it was able to hear his most intimate thoughts, a familiar and unwelcome voice laughed in the dark corridors of the orbital citadel.

"Continue to convince yourself of this, my treacherous apprentice."

* * *

 **Ser Jaime Lannister** , **07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

As hundreds of starfighters left the bays of the fleet carrier in front of him, Jaime deeply regretted not being with them.

Sure, of the thousands small engines leaving uncountable bays, many were going to die in the next hour. Neither his father nor his uncles had been so kind to give him an estimation of the casualties they were going to take, but it didn't take a genius to know the massive orbital fortresses of Pyke were not going to be destroyed without a considerable price in blood and material. Hundreds of thousands of men were ready to die. If the Seven were good, 'only' thousands would end their life in the nest of the Ironborn vermin.

But at least they were in the heart of the action. Unlike him, since his duty for the present was to protect the Lords aboard the royal flagship. Like there was a chance of them being killed as they were over one million kilometres outside extreme missile range. Jaime didn't know what the King was thinking at the best of times and today the decisions of Rhaegar Targaryen were even stranger than on an average day. If it had been him in command, the eldest son of Tywin Lannister would have given the honour to Arthur Dayne or Barristan Selmy to lead the starfighters' wave, they were the best of the white swords after him, honestly. In the case a Kingsguard was not an option, the Reach or the West had plenty of fighter junior officers eager to give a painful lesson to the Ironborn. And for the ground assault Ser Buford Bulwer or Ser Oswell Whent were the best choices. They were the two Kingsguards who had trained over and over the troops in orbital deployments thorough Westeros these last months.

The dragon had decided not to name commanders based on anything like competency. Jon Bulwer had been told to command the starfighter waves, which given the skill of the Reach Knight in this field was more or less a death sentence. And the ground assault was going to be under the White Bull's command. Jaime didn't know what Gerold Hightower had done to anger Rhaegar but it was likely a minable vengeance. The famous Knight of Oldtown had lost much of his speed and his agility when they had sparred in the Banefort training grounds. At his age, Gerold had no place on the frontlines anymore. Oh, the White Bull was still an impressive duellist and would kill nine out of ten warriors in a duel. But in a battle lasting hours, Jaime had no doubt Gerold would not keep the rhythm very long. War was all about saving your energy and having an excellent battle-armour was no certainty of survival.

Sighing once more, Jaime turned away from the bridge where the young Riverrun Heir and plenty of teenagers were busy laughing and drinking. This kind of spectacle disgusted him. Millions were going to battle for Pyke, but the golden youth of the Noble Houses was partying and continuing their little games. Marching to the console he had two of his own armsmen, Jaime lighted on the tactical display and switched on the frequencies used by the Kingsguard and the senior squadron leaders.

"Dragon Leader speaking, this is the battle-call to the squadron leaders. Are you ready?"

The voice of Jon Bulwer was cold and frosty. For those who didn't know him, Jaime supposed the Kingsguard sounded like a consummate professional and a proud Knight of the Kingsguard. In reality, the Reach white warrior was probably cursing with his very soul the Lords who had decided to place him in this deadly situation.

"Lion Leader, standing by."

"Gold Leader, ready and standing by."

"Labourer Leader, systems optimal and ready, standing by."

"Griffin Leader, ready to kill for the King."

"Red Leader, standing by."

"Viper Leader, acknowledged and ready."

"Black Leader, ready for the stars."

"Gate Leader, ready for the Vale."

"Merman Leader, standing by."

The answer from his fellow Kingsguard did not make itself wait.

"Form around me in pattern Wyvern-Four-Two-Dragonstone." Jaime knew this one very well. It was not subtle. It was not elegant. On the other hand, there were more than eight thousand starfighters with Bulwer and this was just the first wave. Jon Bulwer needed a minimum distance between the nimble attack craft or when the missiles and the lasers started to shoot his forces were going to kill themselves in a frenzy of friendly fire. The weapon systems and the blueprints of the different Sector Navies were too different to assimilate each other in a few days of training, assuming all Admirals and Lords had given their solemn accord. And many had not.

"Lock your thrusters in attack position."

Upon the holo-videos available, Jaime watched as the familiar 'H' forms of the Aggressor and Avenger Western fighters deployed their deflectors and cannons. Surrounding them were hundreds of Drake-34 'Firestorm' from the Crown Sector. Shooting Stars, Stellar Knights and Paladins from the Reach were even more numerous, a swarm of incredible proportions. And here and there were other squadrons. Piranhas, Salmons and Dolphins for the River Sector. Nightingales for Dorne. Thunderbird and Sirocco for the Storm Sector. Rogue for the North. Plus dozens of customised models which had never entered mass production and would receive their grand field testing today.

"Have you seen the sight of that thing?"

The exclamation was incredulous but justified as Jaime saw like the rest of the fleet the first Blackstone Fortress come into view. But 'fortress' seemed insufficient to describe the sheer size and the terrible infrastructure defending Pyke. There were massive asteroids in the system which would be dwarfs against this thing. Except the Rock, the quasi-majority of the ground and land fortresses of Westeros were dwarves compared to this titanic construction. The Blackstone Fortress looked like someone had tried to build a planet-sized fortress and abandoned it in the middle of the task. Maybe hundreds of years had been necessary to build it. And the Ironborn had five of them...plus dozens of smaller forts and platforms.

"Cut the chatter, Griffin Leader!" Barked the Kingsguard. "All squadrons this is Dragon Leader. Accelerate to eighty-per cent of your military speed!"

The son of Tywin Lannister raised his eyes and sure enough seconds later the light left by these thousands of attack runs became noticeable. It was like a thousand small stars had decided to attack Pyke.

"This is it, boys. Entering extreme range of the orbital defences' guns."

Just as the Reach Knight pronounced these words, the Blackstone Fortress covering this quadrant and hundreds of batteries opened fire at the same time. The outer fortresses of the Pyke System may have been obsolete, but obviously those defending the home planet of the Iron King had not been starved from funds.

It was an unimaginable storm of destruction. The commanders of the Ironborn defences had decided the jump-capable hulls of House Lannister and the rest of the Seven Sectors were not going to enter their range before the starfighters had ravaged the platforms and the space citadels and thus fired everything they had available, a terrible scream of defiance. For a second or two, Jaime admired the courage of the Pyke soldiers. Unless they had all a bean instead of a brain, these men knew their chances of survival were more or less inexistent. But they hurled nonetheless prodigious quantities of missiles at their incoming killers.

Their treatment was nonetheless fair for what they had done at Lannisport.

"Dragon Leader, this is Lion Leader."

"I copy Lion Leader."

"We are in position. I'm going to evade their fire and begin my attack run!"

Jaime grinned at the bloodthirsty enthusiasm. He had met the Lantel Captain commanding the Lion squadron beforehand and the man had impressed him by his offensive attitude. His motto was 'strike hard!' and it showed.

Then the starfighters met the behemoth salvo and cohesion was a thing of the past. Hundreds of pilots launched their own missiles, knowing they were doomed but determined to send plenty of Ironborn with them in the Seven Hells with them.

This was a slaughter. And Jaime recognised that in this kind of situation not even his skill level was enough to matter. Survival had been reduced to sheer dumb luck. Hundreds of starfighters exploded in the first ten seconds, with some pilots screaming as more missiles they had ever seen in their whole lives locked on their fighter's energy signature.

"The enemy is launching its Ironcores!"

The Lannister scion grimaced. Ironcores. The Ironborn version of starfighters, doted of phenomenal capacities but fortunately completely unreliable for long-term deployment. Many had been lost at Fair Isle and the General Staff had hoped the majority of them had been eliminated. As over two hundred orbital launches were signalled, this estimation appeared to have been...optimistic.

"They are behind me!"

"Evade! Evade!"

"Black Leader, this is Dragon Leader. They are behind me, you have-"

These were the last words anyone ever heard Jon Bulwer utter. A scream was heard on the priority frequency and Jaime saw the white icon of the Kingsguard disappear forever. Simply formidable. The year was still young, and the Order had just lost a second member.

"This is Black Leader, I'm assuming command." The voice of the new starfighter commander was particularly subdued and there were excellent reasons why. Their leader had just left this galaxy and of the eight thousand starfighters, a third of them were gone and many which had survived had expanded their ammunition. "Fire plan Inferno."

With the kind of losses the pilots had just been taken there was no hesitation when they received their new orders. Two thousand starfighters gave their instructions and updated the last coordinates to their projectiles. Not against the Blackstone Fortress, because the super-sized black citadel was not going to be destroyed by the equivalent of flies and mosquitoes. No, the target was the _Forge of Iron_ , the greatest shipyard the Ironborn had managed to expand in the last decades, eight times the length of the greatest ship of the line in the Western fleet.

"Die Ironborn scum!" Screamed a squadron leader.

Over two thousand missiles, short-range plasma bombs and high-intensity lasers activated and unleashed their fury against the _Forge of Iron_. A ship of the line would have succumbed against this amount of firepower. Against a shipyard which had large sections unshielded – whether it was lack of time or lack of funds Jaime did not know – it was overkill.

Two hundred starfighters did not survive their attack run but when the one thousand and eight hundred survivors emerged from the inferno, the _Forge of Iron_ was a burning mini-nova and the Ironborn were forced to divert their fire to ensure none of the debris were going to fall on the planet. At least ninety thousand people had been living and working on this station. Now they were dead to the last.

"The Seven forgive us..." Jaime heard a man pray on the command frequency.

The orbital constructions around Pyke were considerable. Like Storm's End, Casterly Rock or King's Landing, there were so many industrial and living needs for a capital system that the space around the planet formed a large ring of durasteel and metallic alloys. Or at least it had. Now there was a large gaping hole, the disappearance of the Forge of Iron and everything nearby having smashed the Ironborn constructions into oblivion.

"Good job, boys." Declared Black Leader to the rest of the still living squadron commanders. "We return to the carriers and rearm."

Jaime switched the frequency to the ones used by the Generals and Admirals and sure enough...

"Launch the second wave!"

This was not the voice of his father, of course. No, Tywin Lannister was always speaking in calm and concise sentences in the middle of the battle. Bombastic exclamations and an ignorance of everything military related...it could be none other than Mace Tyrell. Had the Lord of Highgarden even thought about the strain this was going to put on the repair and control crews aboard the carriers?

But the idiot was Lord Paramount of the Reach, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South and blah, blah, blah. It apparently gave him the right to be as stupid and willing to shed the blood of his men as he wanted.

"Second wave launched. Bridge Leader commanding."

The new wave of fresh starfighters this time was almost entirely formed of Reach starfighters. And if one wanted to be accurate, the Paladins starfighters built by Highgarden were really in large numbers. The more surprising point was in fact not all were coming from carriers. By the looks of things, many of the 'armoured transports' the Fat Rose had put in his order battle were improvised carriers and not used for the army divisions.

"Bridge Leader, your target is the Blackstone Fortress of your quadrant!"

This was times like this where Jaime wanted to slam his head into the console. But with the proximity of several River, Crown and Reach Heirs, this was unfortunately not an option. He was already not in his King's favour; there was no need to add other Lords to the list of people who do not believed him loyal.

"Acknowledged, my Lord." If the Reach Captain had any reservations about this short-sighted plan, he hid it well in his voice. Many secondary fortresses had been destroyed by the first wave but not all. Also half of the Ironcores were still flying. The Blackstone Fortress was already a tough thing to crack; there was no need to leave its support intact and able to retaliate.

 _But who are we to teach Mace Tyrell how to wage war_?

The next best thing to five thousands fighters rushed towards the heart of the Greyjoy defences. With the approach vector, they had taken the Ironborn couldn't miss. A new storm of destruction emerged from their huge guns and blasted away nearly half of the starfighters. Yes, leaving most of the defences free to shoot at you without returning fire was not exactly the tactic of the century.

"Return to the carriers! This is Bridge Leader, go back to the carriers and-"

A new salvo of lasers and a second senior commander was dead. The result of this death led to a lot of consequences. Most of the pilots realised that the orders they had been given were suicidal and diverted their fire on secondary targets like the missile platforms, the Ironcore bases or the multiple dockyards. The explosions which followed revealed varying degrees of success. But given the imprecations of Lord Rowan and Lord Fossoway on the command frequencies, the possibility of these men to have a promotion in the next decade had been seriously compromised.

That point made, there were less than a thousand pilots returning from the onslaught. For many of the young men involved in this bloodbath, promotions weren't a concern anymore.

"Hold the third wave." Jaime had no idea where his father had been during these last minutes –maybe trying to convince Rhaegar this whole assault was a disaster in the making - but clearly the Lord of Casterly Rock was back and his voice broke no argument. "We will reinforce it with the veterans of the first wave and blast away the surviving forts. The Blackstone Fortresses will be the targets of the fourth wave."

Against this kind of authority, none of the Reach Lords opened their mouths to protest – or at least if they did it was not in proximity of a console where he could listen. Well, maybe the Lord of Highgarden and his cohorts weren't completely lost causes then.

It took well over twenty minutes for the starfighter command to be reorganised and be ready to launch again. It would not have been so bad, if Jaime wasn't forced to hear young Edmure Tully and Viserys Targaryen vaunting their skills and abilities with an ego that left him toneless. As far as the golden-haired Kingsguard understood, the time these youngsters had spent at King's Landing had not been spent preparing themselves to rule their holdings, learn foreign languages or discover the subtleties of spaceship command.

One look at them and the kind of ambitious aristocrats they had made their circle of was sufficient to tell him they had done none of these activities. But then it was always easier to participate in the decadence of the Targaryen court than challenging it. Or so the rumours said, since he had not been authorised to return to the capital for years.

"Third wave launching now!"

Once again, the valorous men rushed towards Pyke and its merciless defences. Thousands of men, bloodied, battered but still determined to send the Ironborn to the Seven Hells.

"What the hell is that?"

Jaime did not know the name of the squadron leader who had just spoken. Maybe an inquiry later could tell it. But for the moment, this was far from his mind. Around the Blackstone Fortress showed on the different tactical displays, a maelstrom of energy was surging. Lightning of blue coalesced with black rays, a spectacle that was strangely eerie...and impossible. The Blackstone Fortress was not in the atmosphere. By all laws of physics, this kind of phenomenon was outright impossible in the void. This was no cosmic storm, no comet or asteroid impact.

 _You know what it is_ , laughed a little voice in his head. _It is death_.

The forces in play were certainly way over the norms of the Ironborn engineers. The sensors reported many orbital docks and platforms were attracted and torn apart in this maelstrom of uncontrollable energies. The third wave of fighters diverted its course, not willing to engage in this cataclysmic event. And finally it was too much. The void itself seemed to ripple apart and the explosion when it came was a hundred times more powerful than the destruction of the Forge of Iron.

Before the sensors and the communication officers fixed the situation, Jaime Lannister knew what they were going to say.

"The Blackstone Fortress...it is gone."

With a moment of delay, he realised it was his mouth which had just uttered these words.

* * *

 **Euron Greyjoy, 07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

His plans for godhood were gone, possibly forever.

As he entered the ruined room where he had kept his Soulstone, this was all Euron was able to think. Fifty wights rushed at him and died in an instant as he ravaged them in black fire and durasteel. The few corpses which survived this massacre were gunned down by his crewmen coming behind him.

But there were too late.

The Soulstone had been destroyed. The Crow's Eye had felt its destruction of course, but he had hoped there would be something to salvage.

"Damn them..." A powerful kick dispersed the black crystal shards all over the ground.

The good news was that as far as he could tell the Others had not tried to turn back the energy of the souls he had harvested against him. Whether they were unable to do so or had decided it was not worth their time, Euron could not say and he didn't really care. The bad news was that the backlash had killed most of the sacrifices, his new 'concubines' he had spent his last nights with and pretty much everyone in the core of the fortress. It was already frustrating to see the beautiful collection of women gone – many of the Lannister blood had been quite stunning – but it meant also all his future bastards had died too. And as his servants and his slaves had died, the ranks of the wights were increasing minute after minute. Already the reavers behind him were covering the corridors near the ritual room in corpses and viscera.

He had lost and in all likelihood the Blackstone Fortresses were impossible to save.

"What do we do now my Prince?" Asked a Codd Captain as their group cut down the terrible faces of men they had hours ago called their brothers-in-arms.

For a moment Euron didn't answer, instead venting his rage on the wights assailing him. Dozens fell under his powers...but it was providing him no satisfaction at all. He loved seeing the despair and the pain in the eyes of his victims. Their suffering and their pleas were a delicacy he savoured in each battle. But here it was different. These things he fought were puppets of flesh and bones, unable to understand what was happening to them. Rapid examinations had revealed that whatever sorcery the Others used to animate the corpses, the human souls had long departed for the afterlife. Thus there was no pain, morale torture or punishment he could inflict them. Bathing a human body in plasma was not very satisfying when there was no scream of agony to accompany it.

"We retreat to the _Silence_." He decided.

"My lord, the enemy fleet isn't going to leave us hanging in orbit."

"Oh, I know." The closest wight on his right was shot six times and then thrown out in the incoming mass. "Let's clarify my previous command. We retreat to the _Silence_ and we leave Pyke behind us for a life of piracy and plunder."

Rhaegar Targaryen and his subordinates were certainly utter morons, but even these pathetic lizards were going to notice something was wrong with the Blackstone Fortresses sooner or later. For the moment the automated systems allowed the illusion to continue but it would not last eternally. Furthermore, after their little raids and other acts of aggression the Crow's Eye knew the Lannisters wanted to erase the Greyjoy name from history. Since he couldn't wipe them out, it was better to flee. His revenge would wait another day.

"Mors! Blast your way to the third bridge and launch the self-destruct procedures!"

When he had installed the system connecting thousands of plasma charges two years ago, he had been totally convinced this was a procedure which would never be activated. Today it was probably the sole thing preventing his enemies from capturing the Blackstone Fortresses and the proofs of his experiments.

"Yes, my Prince! How much time do you want?"

"An hour should give us plenty of time to evacuate the living I think."

On this last command the survivors of the first hour of battle moved towards their assigned positions, crippling and blasting the wights charging down the corridors. If at first it was a bit amusing considering the facility these corpses were made lifeless again, it didn't last.

The plasma weapons and various flamethrowers – the best weapons they could use against the undead - could not operate endlessly without reloading and the waves of wights were coming from everywhere. Worse, opening the anti-blast doors, the lifters and the various passages took a lot of time and closing them was not a minor matter either. And at each obstacle the dead were coming. Euron had cursed the abominations profusely until he was short of insults, and the rest of his servants were not far behind. From time to time their group was linking with group of survivors. In normal times, Euron would have shot these hindrances. No one could see the Crow's Eye defeated. Unexpectedly, he had to make an exception today because he didn't fancy fighting more wights than there already were in these dark halls.

Overall over five hundred reavers had been rallied when the blaring alarms of the self-destruction procedure began to emit their sinister warning. His crewmen had succeeded in the mission he had given them. This was good, because while they were less than two hundred metres away from the hangar where the _Silence_ waited, hundreds of wights were arriving per second and they were forced to close two anti-blast walls in a hurry. Coming back to destroy the fortress themselves was impossible. There were too many wights – in fact the numbers they faced was highly suspicious. Euron had methodically incinerated thousands of the sacrifices necessary for his ascension in the last months and he knew how strained the manpower of the Iron Fleet was. And the last purges had seen the defeatists and the cowards killed and disposed in the same way. Where in the name of the Gods and Demons did these corpses came from?

Fortunately, these last corpses were still easy to eliminate, although about half of the guns his group had were short of ammunition. They would have to fight with close-quarter vibro-weapons from now on...and the casualties would rise because these things were not surrendering once they lost arms or legs.

"Open the hangar doors and embark on the _Silence_." He ordered to the Ironborn. This day was a complete disaster, but as long as he lived he could always rebuild. "Code is JFYI5XSA8D."

Unsurprisingly everyone rushed to obey and soon the wall of durasteel opened to reveal his longship waiting for him.

"Garon! Go to the engineering sections, I want us to be gone in thirty minutes! Daron! You have fifteen minutes to calculate a jump ten light years out of this system! Utheron! I want all our batteries and counter-missile systems ready to fire as soon as we leave the Fortress!"

Nods and positive answers echoed in the great hangar where their only means of escape waited. On every walkway, men rushed to embark and execute his instructions. "Raven!" Of course the man's name was not raven but given that he had cut his tongue his slave was unlikely to protest. "Close the anti-blast doors and open the void gates!"

The man raced to the control panel and began to type what his master had commanded to do. Sighing in relief at the proof his men were still terrified of him, Euron went to the lifters and after ten minutes of elevators and short-cuts he was able to retrieve his violin and the seat on his command bridge. Not everything had gone to plan...but as the sensors linked to the Silence revealed, these imbeciles of greenlanders were still busy shredding the rest of the Pyke orbital defences, starfighter waves after starfighter waves.

"Let's get out of here, by the wrath of the Storm God." Euron said to his officers and saw only approval on all their mediocre faces. "I want to be on the other side of the Sunset Void when our enemies will try to pursue us."

"By your orders, my Prince!"

The black-matters reactors roared in anticipation and one by one the vital sections of the _Silence_ reported full readiness. Slowly but graciously, the longship rose from its berth as the gates separating the hangar from the void opened in full. The discussions of the enlisted personnel were professional and efficient. No damage or failures manifested and in two minutes the Silence would leave the Blackstone Fortress – in all probability forever.

And then the impossible happened again. One of the reavers shouted a warning and everyone turned to the screen he pointed just in time to see the colossal doors protecting them from the wights explode in a flash of blue.

"My Prince!"

Euron for a second stared open-mouthed at the screen. It was impossible. The walls were in durasteel and diverse alloys of the toughest materials humanity was able to create. Technically it was possible to destroy them...assuming you had a battery or two of super-heavy lasers like the ones mounted on the capital warships. The alternative was a nuclear weapon of several megatons, of course. But these were definitely weapons not given to the infantry, light or heavy. And the accesses to the hangars were not that large...the wights assuming they had somewhat gained intelligence would not have been able to move one of the Fortress main guns in such a short amount of time.

"Full speed ahead! Don't let whatever destroyed the gate get a shot at the _Silence_!" Euron shouted as a torrent of wights surged in the now thoroughly-shattered protection.

But a starship took time to move away when it left a dockyard and the Silence was no exception; it was prudence or risk the hull hitting the Blackstone Fortress – a clash the Ironborn fortress would easily win.

In this interval of time, the entire crew was able to watch the incredible undead horde trying to attack his command. It went without saying it was exercise in futility – most of the corpses were trying to attack with their bare hands and couldn't jump high enough. Against a longship, it was almost ridiculous. What was not ridiculous however, was the human-sized figure coming in the middle of the mass, holding what looked to be a sort of sniper rifle and wearing a Dornish-look-alike battle-armour...except no Dornish was surrounded by a blue halo of power and had ice-coloured equipment.

 _Other_.

His pilot made the drives scream in fury in defiance of all safety regulations but Euron knew in his mind they were not going to pass in time. A meagre consolation was that the monster was not going to escape the self-destruct...they had only six minutes before annihilation. The Enemy fired from its rifle as the Silence fled the doomed citadel. A terrible flash in blue and the bridge's alarms flashed red as dozens of systems went down, exploded or were simply disintegrated.

They were out in the void...but by the sight of the battle raging around them and the large cloud of debris the _Silence_ was losing second after second, they were far from saved.

"The Engineering Section is in fire, my Prince!" As about nearly every captain could tell you, it was more or less a death sentence for a ship. "Heavy losses in compartments 10, 62, 67, 68 and 80!"

"We have managed to stabilise reactor one." Announced one of the men he had 'recruited' in the exodus of the Blackstone Fortress.

"And reactor two is not on fire anymore!"

Euron took a thought to marvel how far his plans had fallen. From godhood to a captain commanding a crippled longship...and then he had enough. Activating the speakers, the brother of Balon Greyjoy declared his own battle-speech.

"Listen to me all of you! This is your Prince speaking! We thank you to have chosen Silence Starlines! In a few minutes, we are going to land at Lordsport! The bad news...we are going to crash! The good news..." The Crow's Eye watched the tactical display and glared at the tens of thousands warships coming at them preceded by enough missiles to vaporise anything. "The greenlanders are coming at us and there are millions of them! So I suppose we are soon going to meet the Void God! Don't forget: what is dead may never die!"

* * *

 **Lord Captain Urrathon Blacktyde, 07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

The mood in the throne room was dark. The great reavers and famous reavers mustered here had expected heavy losses, but the events of the last hours had shocked everyone, from the lowest thrall to the greatest warrior.

The Blackstone Fortresses were gone, all five of them, and now their rubble was falling on the surface of Pyke in a rain of destruction and dark omen. The orbital defences, both on the outer and inner system, were reduced to impotence when they hadn't just been wiped out.

"My brother is an incapable."

"Yes, your Grace!"

What was he supposed to say to his King?

"The greenlanders are in orbit!"

"Nuclear detonations on Dalton's Crossing and Vickon's Forge! By the Drowned God there are nothing left of them!"

"Orbital strikes on Wynch's Shield!"

"The 15th Division is gone! Their deployment zone has collapsed!"

It was like fighting a tide of unending disasters. The tactical displays and every console were flashing in black, red and with hundreds of alerts. Many machines were switching off, unable to compute the magnitude of the disaster.

"Multiple landings around Lordsport!"

"What are our anti-air batteries doing?" Snarled the Iron King. "Shoot them down! I want their landers in flames!"

"There are too many of them, your Grace!" Replied a soldier wearing the Botley coat of arms. "Our guns are unable to kill them all!"

Lord Urrathon glanced at the new updated situation and grimaced. By the disposition of forces, the enemy was going to assault the great starport in overwhelming force. And if Lordsport fell, the path to the capital-citadel of Pyke would be wide open.

"Your Grace, I request the deployment of the four reserve armies of the central command at Lordsport!"

"Granted."The visage of King Balon was hard. "Tell Lord Sawane he must hold his positions. No surrender or retreat will be allowed. Lordsport will hold!"

The Lord of Blacktyde nodded but one more look at the number of enemy troops debarking made him wince. There were simply too many enemies...even if the four divisions arrived in time, the Ironborn were going to be terribly outnumbered. The garrison of Lordsport was five million-strong and their reinforcements would give them plenty of additional firepower...but the initial estimates told him the enemy generals had already unleashed over hundreds of thousands greenlanders in the first assault waves.

 _If Lordsport doesn't hold...we are finished_.

* * *

" _So this is what the antechamber of the Seven Hells looks like_." Captain Davos Seaworth, 290AAC.

" _Pyke will be the funeral pyre of the Greyjoy Rebellion_." Lord Jon Connington, 290AAC.

" _These are heretics and you will give them no mercy_!" Anonymous septon, 290AAC.

 **Ayric Sarring, 07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

"And remember."

Between the noise of the engines, the blaring alarms of the shuttle, the shouts of the pilot and many other distractions, the golden-haired Captain in charge of their company was forced to shout with the full power of his lungs to make himself heard.

"Anyone who fights the troops of our Lord Tywin Lannister is either terminally stupid or brainless enough to be on the traitor Balon Greyjoy's payroll."

Sometimes Ayric was remembered that the life of an officer had to be really sad. He was sure the imbeciles of High Command had ordered hundreds of Captains like the one commanding them to recite these sentences word per word.

"Killing the former is great and our duty. Killing the latter is a favour to the galaxy."

The message was limpid: 'Kill as many Ironborn as you can and don't worry about the accusations of war crimes.'

Two seconds later they crashed into the damned ground of Pyke, the hatched opened and they ran out of their transport before it was their final resting place.

"DEATH TO THE FALSE KING!" Screamed Sandor Clegane in front of him, emptying his rifle shots in the back of several Ironborn completely overwhelmed by the torrent of Western troops. "DEATH TO THE IRONBORN!"

The enemies in the middle of the square they had just arrived didn't a chance. They were over three scores of them, guarding a light Scythe tank. The Lannister troops had over six entire companies, four Panther-688 battle-tanks and hundreds of heavy weapons. All told, it took less than ten seconds to reduce the Scythe into molten slag and the Ironborn into fuming corpses.

"FORWARD! FORWARD FOR THE ROCK AND LANNISPORT!"

They raced in a vision of hell. The skies had turned black and red with the ashes and the fires. More and more black dots of transports were slamming in the desolate ground, pouring more red-coloured battle-armours in the melee. Orbital strikes annihilated the great fortresses towering over the city, ray of lights preceding the darkness to come.

This was total war and they were in the middle of it. Thousands of laser rifles were shooting per second and in a few seconds they emptied everything they had in their batteries. Ayric reloaded and then continued to shoot. And shoot they did, at the bunkers, at the houses and at the barricaded Ironborn buildings.

There was an overabundance of targets and if you missed your shot, then a man nearby was sure to touch it. The advance was ordered in their radios and they ran into the fighting. A column of Scythe and Land-Reaver tanks tried to launch a counter-attack but the fire of the Panthers stopped them in their tracks and the anti-tank weapons knocked the turrets out of action in two breaths. The few Ironborn who tried to get out of their machines were slaughtered where they stood.

"NO MERCY!" The imprecations barked by the officers had at least the merit of being clear this time. "NO QUARTER!"

But the Ironborn must have the same instructions because they were adopting the same mentality. Screaming the usual 'what is dead may never die!' entire regiments of midnight-blue armour slammed into the ranks of the Lannisport men with the fury of despair. Swords and axes danced in a mutual bloodbath. Ayric killed six enemies in duel before finishing on the ground one reaver who cried for mercy.

The sky was burning and the roar of missiles became so loud even the roars and screams in the speakers were impossible to understand. Artillery rained around them and the dark terrain of Pyke was razed and levelled by thousands of guns. Leopard-1750s and Panther-688s were arriving in greater number and soon the position was carried on. The streets were set aflame with flamethrowers and the defensive positions were broken over the Ironborn dead bodies.

All discipline had been lost. The precise columns of the different companies were blurred together and as they climbed the mountain of debris the poor visibility mixed the different formations despite the best efforts of the warrant officers. But they continued the advance. Alone or together, they charged the Ironborn.

The battle did not get calmer. In fact it appeared enemies touching the ground of Pyke had really fired the Ironborn tempers. From crumbling hidings and ravaged walls they came by the thousands, roars of defiance on their lips and their seven-damned black-matter weapons. The small gardens, the squares and the houses were transformed into charnel pits. The gutters ran red with blood and it was impossible to tell the difference between ally and enemy. In several minutes Ayric led the charge in a former market and there they crushed man by man the Ironborn regiment which had taken refuge here.

"KILL FOR THE LIVING!"

"KILL FOR THE DEAD!"

"LANNISPORT! LANNISPORT!"

Ashes and fire were now everywhere. Soldiers exchanged their empty batteries for full ones and proceeded to unleash the lasers at the Ironborn. Roofs collapsed, burying entire battalions under them. Tanks slammed into the habitations, creating breaches where there had been path, with thousands of soldiers following on their tracks.

If they had been no reinforcements, the offensive would have stalled a long time ago. The Ironborn were dying, but they were not dying alone. Regiments were reduced to the size of companies. Companies died and only survived small platoons. Ayric saw the Captain he was supposed to obey trampled by a Land-Reaver. The Ironborn tank was disintegrated seconds later but the officer had long perished in a terrible agony. But no death could stop the carnage from continuing. Preslan on his right and Clegane on the left, Ayric fought to stop the flanking attack. Flyers soared from nowhere and for a moment the Westerns warriors saw a tide of plasma and hell coming at them. Guns fired everything they had and he took cover with the remaining men of his company. In this inferno, nothing could survive. Despite the air filters, the sour smell of smoke and explosives was inside their armours now. And finally the inferno passed and the time to counter-attack came.

"REMEMBER LANNISPORT!"

Thousands of men emerged from the ruins where they had waited and ran in the devastated landscape, trampling thousands of corpses. In front of them, the Ironborn came, their prayers to their freaking Void God unceasing and unbending. The Bolton vibro-sword he always carried with him butchered a dozen enemies before resistance was finally crushed.

New transports slammed into the ground. This time the soldiers coming in support were not bearing the red of the West but the green of the Reach. Many were evidently inexperienced, as they walked at a leisurely pace out of their transports. Two of them bursting aflame in columns of gore and splinters introduced them to the brutality of the battlefield. Then they began to run and fight. It was like that everywhere: Pyke was an unforgivable battlefield, you killed the enemy or you died at his hands.

Onwards and a new charge began. This time one of the gigantic bridges so common on the surface of Pyke was their target. There was no short-cut: under it, the abysses of Pyke waited and the rest of the terrain was impossible to cross unless you were ready to get rid of your battle-armour and had good climbing equipment. The artillery of every side created craters and thinned the ranks. Then it was the turn of the tanks.

Unfortunately they weren't that many Panthers and Leopards to led the charge on their side. They had hundreds of these mini-tanks the Reach and the Crown Sector loved, but they were only three super-heavies with griffin decorations. Ayric wasn't sure where the rest of their armour had gone, but their section of the battlefield really needed it as a juggernaut of black and blue thundered out of the dust.

"Oh, shit! Leviathan! To cover! To cover!"

The monstrous tank was slightly smaller than the funny griffin tanks but its armament and its manoeuvrability was overwhelmingly superior. Four machine guns transformed the charging griffin infantry in a cloud of red and then it was the turn of the super-heavies. Each shot of the great battle-cannon was murder. One shot, one of their greatest armoured fighting vehicle destroyed. The White Lions of the Western Army undoubtedly would have fared better, but they weren't there and the Ironborn Leviathan was.

"Grenades and anti-tank launchers on the Leviathan!" Ordered a Colonel on their frequency and those who had these weapons available attacked. All the while the enemy super-heavy tank circled around the Reach, Storm and Western tank formations, ripping apart their cohesion and their numbers. Turrets were smashed apart, the blood of their gunners bathing the armour. Guns were ripped apart, entire armour plates fell apart and quite often the fuel exploded, adding more fire to an already chaotic battlefield.

Unable to crush the Leviathan individually, the tankers countered the Greyjoy machine by tactics which would have been considered insane before they set a foot on Pyke. One of the few Reach battle-tanks pushed its acceleration to the maximum...and rammed the Leviathan. By the looks of it, the Ironborn enemy in charge of the tank had not expected that...and this was probably the last reflexion the two had because with all the incendiaries and fuel in the environment, the two tanks went in flame before a titanic explosion wiped them out of existence.

"The way to the bridge is opened! Advance for the glory of the Rock!"

Well, there were a few Scythes left but those were easily dealt with –if one didn't count an entire company of brown battle-armours extinguished in a barrage which left their horse banner in tatters. Still, Ayric vowed to discover the identity of the officer so willing to send thousands men in the bloodbath while the pompous noble stayed far away from the frontlines.

Besides that the Ironborn formation in front of them was outnumbered and outgunned didn't mean the progression was easy. He didn't know how many hours of fighting had happened, but it had been bad for the blocks of the city. Avenues and buildings were now no more than rubble and useless materials, forcing the veterans to advance carefully. More than one soldier saw the ground under his feet open as an underground passage revealed itself in the dust. Traps of all kind abounded, the population was throwing themselves at them like madmen and the last Ironborn warriors were counterattacking from nowhere, gunning down the inexperienced recruits like they were nothing. In shot words, the Ironborn city was utterly gutted but its defenders fought like demons. More than once the familiar thunder of the orbital strikes was called to break the forts and bunkers the ground forces were unable to break. And still the Ironborn didn't give up, even as several high buildings were pulverised over their heads to crush them and the equivalent of a very big regiment was slaughtered by mass application of artillery explosive ordnance.

"How many do we have to kill before they surrender?" Grumbled a Western Sergeant bearing a boar insignia. It was a good question: they had already killed an entire generation at Fair Isle. If they continued to slaughter these Ironborn for a few more days, Pyke inhabitants were going to be in the low thousands when this entire butchery was over.

"We have taken the extremities of the bridge! What is the next target?"

The answer arrived two minutes later though the interferences played hell on the quality of the transmission.

"Advance on sector 14 to your south-south-east. Investigate the longship which has crashed in the industrial block."

Ayric Sarring bit back a curse. They hadn't been able to catch a break and most of their equipment was hopelessly ruined by hours of desperate fighting. What was a poor Lieutenant 1st class supposed to give as an answer in cases like this?

* * *

 **Euron Greyjoy, 07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

"Stand men! I have no use for the weak!"

This affirmation was of course a complete lie. Euron had no use for any men, women and children who didn't prostrate themselves when he came into view. If he had completed his ritual and succeeded in his ascension, the entire galaxy would have been forced to bow to his whims. He would have been a god! He would have had a hundred thousand virgins offered to him every day, hundreds of orchestra playing to entertain him and eternity to enjoy the pleasures immortality gave!

But the dream had turned to ashes. The Others – may their souls be cursed until the stars went supernovas – had broken everything he had lengthily and methodically planned in the previous decade. If the events had followed his predictions, he should have been reigning now, surrounded by a destroyed greenlander armada. Instead he and a few thousand men were cornered in a gun factory about two kilometres east where the _Silence_ had crash-landed. And so he was forced to cut the manifestations of obedience to their simplest expression when he entered what had become his command centre by default.

"My Prince, we have confirmation the 104th Division has been annihilated!"

Once again, more bad news arrived. This division had been supposed to hold the bridge guarding their left flank and in the grand strategic picture it probably meant nothing. But it was the sixth time in the last hour this kind of destruction was announced and the casualties list was endless. Ironborn divisions were small, with only Northern and Dornish formations of the same name being smaller, but no army could survive losing over forty-two thousand men in sixty minutes.

"Send the 200th Armoured Regiment to delay the greenlanders!"

"My Prince we are unable to contact them! The enemy has achieved aerial superiority over the city and is destroying our communication relays!"

The second-hand map at the centre of the improvised command post was now littered with dots representing enemy battalions, companies, divisions and sometimes entire armies. It was difficult to believe the ground assault had begun not six hours ago but already the resistance of Lordsport was dying and falling apart.

"We can't stay here." As he spoke the thunder of artillery and tanks came closer. Last-stands were maybe glorious, but the Crow's Eye would let the heroes and the martyrs do them. "We must break the southern encirclement to the south and extract what forces we can save."

"Coward." The dozen or so of officers he had graciously accepted in his circle went instantly silent. From the shadows a Void Priest advanced, his eyes rolling madly. The religious man smelt awful and his clothes were maybe a couple of centuries behind the current fashion. "Lord Balon was right, Prince Euron." The word 'Prince' was pronounced with venom in his tongue. "You are an incapable and a coward, unworthy of the Void God and the Old Way."

Euron cackled in laughter. Oh, this was good. The Void Priests had supported his eldest brother in this idiocy for the entire duration of the war. They had seen Balon lose the greatest fleet the Ironborn had been able to muster in centuries and suddenly it was he who was the incapable?

"These are big words for a Priest of a dead religion." The Prince of Crows told when he had finished laughing. The Void Priest sent him a hateful look but Euron ignored it with the habit of long practise. "What? You didn't think the Targaryens and their lackeys are going to tolerate your presence anymore?"

By the expression the beggar-looking fanatic sent him, this scenario had probably never entered his mind before today.

"You are a heretic, Euron Greyjoy! By the authority invested in me by the Lord Reaper of Pyke-"

The former Captain of the Silence cut short this elocution by plunging his vibro-sword in the heart of his accuser. Unsurprisingly, no kraken or great storm materialised to punish him of this deed. Truly the Void religion and the Seven were more similar than they wanted to admit. Prayers, prayers, prayers and at the end paltry 'miracles' that everyone with a brain could recognise as the flowery words of a heavy propaganda campaign.

In the throne room of Pyke, a murder like this would have preceded the order of his brother to arrest him and send him in the nastiest jail of the Greyjoy prisons. Here the officers barely flinched or smirked. The Void Priests had been the most vocal partisans of the Rebellion and the course decided by the Iron King. With the enemy on the verge of total victory, few generals and senior officers were really happy to see these smelly men included in the war councils and giving orders to their betters.

"We have lost enough time. We march south. Sabotage this factory and make sure we are not followed."

"Yes, my Prince!"

As they navigated in the corridors where hundreds of workers had forged sizeable cannons for the ongoing war, the noises of durasteel against durasteel were more pressing, until finally they arrived in front of the exit. Only to find it held by an entire company of green armours.

The surprise of the greenlanders was delicious.

"We sow the battlefield!"

"What is dead may never die!"

"For Highgarden and the King!"

Euron unleashed his powers. The weapons in his hand were set alight in black flame and he rushed in, slaughtering these minable recruits, extinguishing their feeble lives, drinking the despair in their souls. The three hundred-plus weaklings of the Reach had no stomach for the war. About half of them threw down their weapons and ran from where they had once came, leaving the rest be slain like sheep.

Baying like a pack of jackals, an entire platoon of Wynch men pursued the survivors, only to be ambushed themselves in the square a few metres away from the factory. This time the green armours were not that much trained, but there were a lot of them. At least a regiment, which meant the forces under his command had a disadvantage of three to one and it was getting worse. A Storm super-heavy was advancing at the other extremity of the square and companies of Westerners were arriving from the north.

But they had no defence against his abilities. A circle of black flame and entire platoons screamed as the magic cooked them in their battle-armours. Seriously the equipment the Reach provided to its conscripts was atrocious in quality. No resistance, no endurance and now he was free to massacre them at will. Each of his strikes, each of his shots was shredding apart three or four of these former serfs. Soon he was marching on a pile of corpses, panic was spreading in the green crowd and only the red armours of the West were still fighting tenaciously against his Ironborn. The super-heavy tank was cut apart – these Trident tanks were really slow and useless for their weight. Explosions rocked the street, spreading more flames on the green armours. Many were throwing down their weapons and trying to flee, only to be killed by their exploding tanks or the countless things burning everywhere.

If only at this point more greenlander reinforcements had not flooded the western avenue like an unending tide. And at their head...

"Euron Greyjoy!"

The white armour of the Kingsguard and the emblem of a white bull decorating the epaulets were leaving little doubt about the identity of the man. Yes, this was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in person, Lord Gerold Hightower. Why the famous knight of the White Sword was here, the Crow's Eye had honestly no idea but he was not going to deny this opportunity.

"Oh, thank the Gods and Demons for such a gift."

Impaling a Stormlander on his vibro-sword, Euron cut his way through the waves of Reach men. They were powerless to stop him. They had been unable to scratch the paint of his battle-armour and he was decapitating them in return. One head here, one arm there and in occasion he literally ripped with an old trick the beating heart of a soldier from its chest, relishing the instant as his victim saw its life be crushed by his black fist. He was the kraken and they were just prey.

Finally Gerold Hightower was facing him. To his credit, the Kingsguard had charged in the melee to duel him, but it was painfully visible this effort had tired him. Years ago, the White Bull had had no peer but the knight best years were long gone.

"You should have stayed with your King, grey beard!" The Prince of Crows mocked his opponent. It was difficult to guess the expression of a visage hidden behind Terminator armour, but by the lack of mobility Euron guessed the Kingsguard had acknowledged he would not emerge from this battle alive.

"The Seven brought me here to kill you, Crow's Eye." All around them, the Westerners, the Reachers, the Crownlanders and the Ironborn momentarily stopped their fights. "Too long the Seven Sectors have been forced to endure your loathing presence."

"The Seven!" The Ironborn cackled. "The Seven are just shards of a religion of hypocrites, corrupt and depraved to the bone! But don't worry, Hightower! I will kill you so you don't have to see their fall!"

The White Bull growled at the insult and launched the assault first. The duel was on but Euron was disappointed. Gerold Hightower had lost most of his speed from the last time Euron had watched his swordsmanship at Harrenhal, and wearing the bulkiest battle-armour of the greenlanders armoury had not made him faster. Euron toyed with him for a dozen strikes before letting flow the black flames once again. Euron's first blow missed the fighting hand of his opponent by millimetres. The second carved a large wound in his chest, shredding the great armour like it didn't exist. By the Storm God, this was why he loved cheating! The third time he decapitated the white knight.

Gerold Hightower's corpse fell in a loud thud against the ground and the Ironborn roared in triumph. The rest of the audience moaned in despair.

"Kill them all! Teach them the wrath of the Crow's Eye!"

Euron wanted to add one or two insults to trample a bit further their honour but suddenly his senses he had linked with his magic alerted him of a presence behind him. The roars of the men were silenced. The rifles and the rest of the laser armament stopped shooting. Where moments ago the ambiance had been infernal with thousands fighting near flames and plasma, a dreadful sense of cold began to infiltrate his bones.

The Other was on the roof of the building which had been a recruiting centre for young reavers. The same halo of blue power surrounded it and the weapon it had used to cripple the Silence was on its back. For something that should have been caught in the phenomenal self-destruction of the Blackstone Fortress, it showed no sign of wounds.

This was bad. How had this abomination managed to track him thorough an entire battlefield? Magic. It was the only explanation making sense. The inhuman predator was a magic sensor. The worst part was the point he didn't know at all what was under this elegant armour shining of a thousand shades of blue. Thankfully the Other did not seem to have a close-contact weapon and-

With an agility that was truly out of this world, the Enemy jumped and executed a series of saltos prompt to ridicule every professional acrobat from Yi-Ti to Oldtown. It was-

The Other landed on the equivalent of its knees and struck the bloodied ground hard with its fist. Euron had barely the time to shield himself as a shockwave of blue lightning tore apart the entire square. Legs, arms, torsos, heads and every part of the human bodies were shredded in an explosion of blood. One second later he was alone to face the abomination. A few soldiers on the edge of the square had survived but they would not be of any use against this kind of enemy. And the magic which had just protected him had pumped hard in his reserves. He was out of breath; he had to finish this battle now and escape.

"Die!" He snarled and struck with his vibro-sword. The move was even more lethal as it was partially hidden with a subtle illusion making the blade undulate like a snake.

To his great stupefaction, the Other activated two sort of energy blades on his forearms and with lightning's speed his blade was cut into three pieces. Euron tried to jump away but his opponent was too fast. The first move removed the hand of his left arm while the second light-blue 'blade' bit him right before his right shoulder, taking his other arm with it .

His powers could only do so much to protect him from the pain and a second later the Crow's Eye screamed in agony. The pain was too much. It was like his entire body was sending him the worst pain imaginable. One hand. One arm. He was finished, he was in pain. And the Other was towering over him. He could not wield a weapon anymore.

"Get on with it!" The cadet of Balon Greyjoy roared. "Finish your task!"

But the figure behind the light-blue esoteric helmet instead deactivated its blades.

 _ **Prey**_.

The telepathic intrusion let him shivering and with his members frozen.

 _ **I decide**_.

What was this abomination?

 _ **Suffer**_.

The Other seized him by the throat and in one move threw him into the burning carcass of the Trident super-heavy tank.

If Euron had believed to be in pain before, this was nothing to the new deluge of agony he endured.

* * *

 **Ayric Sarring, 07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

In a previous life, Preslan and he must have done something truly horrible. This was the likeliest explanation for their horrible streak of luck in military operations. After months of war, violence and carnage, they had finally the architect of Lannisport's ruin right in front of them. And just as they fought their way through a company of Ironborn to kill him, an abomination of legend demolished the Crow's Eye and proceeded to kill thousands of men in a single attack.

Bad luck by that point was a feeble word to describe the turn taken by the events.

"How do we kill this demon?"

Trust Sandor Clegane to get right to the important point. And the answer was...

"I have no idea."

They all had their laser rifles and vibro-swords in hand, but what good they would do against such a monster was extremely debatable. Euron Greyjoy had had an unnatural sword of black flames and judging by his screams of agony, it hadn't done him any good.

The creature they faced was emanating cold and despair. It looked vaguely humanoid, but Ayric and the rest of the Westerners had seen it move. No human was able to fight like this in a battle-armour. Swift, lethal and merciless: it had been like assisting to a dance. A dance of death.

And yet what choice did they have? It was not like the monster was going to give them the option of fleeing...

"For the living! Charge!"

But they had not the seconds to cross the square. The abomination shrieked...and the dead rose back.

"What in the Seven Hells?" Screamed the Hound as he avoided the first strike of an Ironborn lacking half of his chest.

By hundreds the men who had just perished in the terrible bloodshed throw themselves at the living. This was like Bridge's Edge...no in fact it was significantly worse. Years ago there had been only one undead; now there were hundreds of them...and they just didn't want to stay dead! Ayric removed the heads of three Reach bodies but after being thrown to the ground the animated corpses still tried to crawl back in their direction.

There were only the blue eyes. There were hundreds of dead blue eyes, animated by something that should have never existed. This was a desperate fight. Shoulder to shoulder, the red armours were encircled by a mass of undead and their weapons were insufficient to kill them permanently. And one by one, the living fell and the dead rose to increase the ranks of the enemy. They had begun the clash with two scores; now there were only eight men selling dearly their lives.

Rectification: there were only seven men left. Ruthlessly and indefatigable, the undead never relented. The fires sputtered as the cold grew more intense.

"I am one with the Old Gods and the Old Gods are with me!"

There was an explosion of light and the wights fell apart. Like a switch, the impression of cold inside their battle-armours was lifted. The dead collapsed like puppets at the end of a mummery. From one of the paths not completely buried under the rubble, a man clad in dark green robes advanced, followed by a column of grey-clad warriors.

 _Northerners. We are saved_.

The irony of the thought didn't escape him. In the last war they had done their best to kill each other but this time the old enemies had brought salvation with them. Well, salvation from the dead at least. There was still the abomination to deal with...

The Other –because what else the monster could be? – did not appear that furious to see its dead minions destroyed in one blow. It had not made a move to use the weapon on its back. The energy blades on its forearms were still inactive.

"You are not wanted here, Child of the Frost. Return to the Void!"

The large piece of wood the Northerner held flashed angry green sparks. His inhuman interlocutor for a moment didn't answer before it 'communicated' again. It was dolorous to hear, like ice on your brain. It was like the monster was projecting in an entire area instead of uttering mere words.

 **Challenge. Worthy Prey**.

"The galaxy is not yours for the taking. Return from whence you came and don't trouble the Realms of Men!"

The Other shrieked but the tonality of the sound was very different and the surviving Westerners and the Northerners reinforcements tensed as they all realised the abomination was laughing. In a faster-than-eye gesture, their enemy removed its helmet.

The Lannisport Lieutenant did not know what he had expected. The monsters had only been heard in the legends of old, and the Northern legends at that. One thing was sure he had not imagined the abomination would look so perfect and inhuman. The Other was a female, she had long white hair, a cold and perfect beauty, pale blue skin and a shape of cheekbones thousands of women would damn themselves to see on their own face. Except the colour, one could almost believe this was a cousin species of humanity...but the pointed ears, the teeth of predator, the sheer promise of violence in her stance and above all, the iris-less blue eyes told the truth. The Others had never been human and they never would be. They were the predators of the Void; the very reason humans feared the darkness.

 **Name. Sy'ar. Night. Second Sword. Remember**.

A flash of blue illuminated the entire battlefield and when their vision was restored the Other was gone. The Northerners and their Green Man showed no sign of giving pursuit.

"I fear dark days are ahead of us...Lord Stark must be warned." With a nod of farewell, the Northerners marched out of the battlefield as new companies of the Reach came into view and discovered the bloodbath.

"Do we include this...incident in our after-battle reports?"

"Sure..." Chuckled Raff Preslan. "If you want to pass the next decade in an asylum."

The seven Westerners looked at each other warily. What they had seen today was not going to earn them laurels. In fact, Ayric could distinctly think of several ways a highborn superior could easily convene a court-martial for them. The idea of Lord Tywin Lannister or one of his senior bannersmen believing this tale was so slim it was not worth thinking about it.

"We stay quiet. With hope, the Northern Lords will listen to the Green Man and prepare for...that."

"Is victory possible?" Growled Clegane.

None of the remnant of the company was optimistic to answer 'yes' as they watched a Reach Knight order a medical party around. Impossibly, it seemed Euron Greyjoy was still alive and screaming in the durasteel trap the destroyed tank had become. When the Crow's Eye was finally extracted from his improvised prison, the ghastly wounds were awful enough that the veterans felt they could not have done worse to him. As the crippled Ironborn was put on a stretcher, many of the Reachers vomited at the sight of the sea of dead littering the square's ground.

One abomination of ice and death had done this. One.

"If we are divided...no."

* * *

 **Lord Captain Urrathon Blacktyde, 07.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

Never had Urrathon felt so tired in his entire life. It was like he had spent weeks awake in the tactical centre of the fortress of Pyke, trying to coordinate the defences of the planet and the millions of men manning them. Sadly, the chronometers were quick to disappoint him: between the first engagement in the outer system and this moment, less than forty hours had passed. As for the time he passed in this room since his transfer from the throne room, it had to be somewhere in the four or five hours.

It didn't make things better. In fact, Urrathon knew it made the outcome significantly worse. When Lord Victarion had requested his help upgrading the platforms and fortresses in space and on the ground, they had based their conclusions on past engagements of the greenlanders navies and armies. Sieges were long and costly affairs; the greenlanders lacked the stomach for a brutal assault straight in the teeth of a capital system's defences.

Except the enemy force which was now assaulting them was doing exactly that. In the last hours, the new Lord Captain of the Ironborn had watched as thousands of tanks and hundreds of thousands men charged directly at their strongest positions. It was like the enemy commander was trying to soak up the planet in the blood of his own troops.

Pyke could not endure this assault. Few planets could. Maybe Moat Cailin or the Bloody Gate could endure the full might of this storm, but not the Ironborn's capital world. The garrison troops simply did not have the ammunition to kill all these greenlanders.

"Lord Captain, we have a transmission from Lord Sawane Botley!" An officer of the communication section shouted. "He's...asking the enemy commander for terms?" The horror filled the last words. Instantly the great command room went silent.

"Confirm!" Urrathon barked but he knew in his stomach this was no mistake.

"Information confirmed." Said another officer. "Lord Botley tells...'enough of my men have died for Balon's folly'." The whispers went out of control after this. And to make the reveal direr, the three metres-tall tactical display suddenly saw the large icons of the crippled three Ironborn field armies disappear.

The seconds and the minutes after were just nightmarish.

"Orbital strikes! Orbital strikes on the cities of Grey Salvation, Hoare's Penance and Dark Harbour!"

"The 14th Army is entirely gone!"

"Two entire enemy armies of tanks are deployed on the Falchion Heights!"

Each on their own, these news would have been disasters. Together, there was no word he could find to describe the situation. Every city guarding the left flank of Lordsport had been levelled. The last army they had in reserve was gone and now the enemy had positioned an armoured hammer to exploit this breakthrough.

The tactical display - which had been bleak before - described a catastrophe now. Lordsport southern perimeter had still many loyal formations, but they had been beaten over and over in the last hours, the theatre commander had just surrendered...and they had millions of greenlanders attacking them relentlessly.

Perhaps if Lord Victarion had been here, the brother of their King could have found a way to turn the tide. But Urrathon was not Victarion and he didn't see a way to salvage something from this decisive defeat.

"Tell our men to begin a fighting withdrawal." In all likelihood, this order would come too late for the men of Lordsport but at least Urrathon would give them a chance. "Tell them I am proud of them...and that the tunnels by the Vickon line are still intact."

"My Lord! The orders of the Iron King..."

Urrathon turned his head to glare at the Void Priest on his right. As the hours passed, the Priest had proven a hindrance rather than an asset. His advice was always to 'stand to the last' and 'not a step back'. By the testicles of the Storm God, the results of the commanders obeying to these instructions had been edifying, no?

"The orders of the King were addressed to Lord Sawane. You just heard what he did." Not that he was blaming the Head of House Botley. Sawane had had his entire city turned into a battleground and two-thirds of his men were dead. "I will not ask the men we have left to hold when their death will mean nothing."

"Their bravery will grant them a place in the halls of the Void God!"

The captains and the rest of the officers looked at each other uneasily. They all believed in the Void God, of course. None of the unbelievers like these Harlaw defeatists were admitted here. But...there was definitely unease in the atmosphere. All the men in this room had at least met Lord Sawane once and knew the Master of Lordsport was not exactly one to throw down weapons at the first opportunity. Moreover, the Ironborn numbers inside the city had plummeted to a mere three hundred thousand. Their deaths would be glorious...and the greenlanders would joyously spend a few more hundreds of thousands of their own men to wipe them out.

"No. Lordsport is lost."

 _And Pyke is next_.

* * *

" _If this is to be our last-stand, so be it. We will send as many greenlanders as we can in their Seven Hells before going feasting in the Halls of the Void God_!" Attributed to King Balon Greyjoy, 290AAC, authenticity never confirmed.

" _Be ready for the Beast comes_." Anonymous Westerner, 290AAC.

 **Ser Jaime Lannister, 09.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

Pyke was burning.

From the top of his command tank, Jaime watched the red skies and the burning landscape. Over two-thirds of the bannersmen following the Greyjoys had surrendered already, but it was too late for the planet. The number of orbital strikes and terror weapons which had been used to force said surrender had done incalculable damage to the environment. It was as well Pyke had never been a beautiful place because after the havoc the armies of the Seven Sectors had made, the picture was nothing short of hellish.

"My Lord Lannister, all our artillery divisions are in position."

Jaime turned away from the destruction spectacle to face one of the myriad of generals his Lord Father had loaned him for the duration of this campaign. The officer was splendid in his pristine red armour with the gold lion of House Lannister painted on the chest, and every weapon and military decoration was placed according to the regulations. Certainly this great officer had never fought for his life on the battlefield, taking rank after rank of promotions thanks to his family influence...not that he himself had much to complain since his title of Kingsguard had been obtained by the same means.

"In this case, you can open fire General."

"By your command!"

The orders were given and the thousands of artillery pieces opened fire in a thunder shaking everything from the Seven Heavens to the Seven Hells. Instants later, it was the turn of the second echelon to launch their explosive ammunition at the citadel of Pyke. Then the third echelon fired and the fourth came after. All in all, in less than five minutes a careful positioning allowed over sixteen thousand siege guns to unleash their fury at the citadel-capital of Pyke.

The ground trembled under these countless explosions. His Lord Father and the rest of the Great Lords had wanted to reduce the Iron King's hideout into rubble quickly and ruthlessly. As a consequence, light batteries of Rock, Ram, Salmon, Bow and Chimera had been sent in the rear-guard or to occupy the surrendered zones. The task of destroying the Greyjoy fortifications was given to the heaviest batteries available. For the Western forces, this meant the Castamere Bane battle-artillery and the Asteroid heavy batteries. There were hundreds of other artillery models of course, going from the Scorpions guns of Dorne to the Crossbow pieces of the Reach. And all were firing at a regular but relentless rhythm at the last resisting holdfast of the Ironborn.

"The Ironborn are returning fire, my Lord!"

Once again, Jaime wished the Lord Commander had not gotten himself killed in the slaughterhouse of Lordsport. Explaining these morons how to conduct a proper siege was about as interesting as to watch Edmure Tully and his friends make fools of themselves. But the White Bull was dead – at the hands of the Crow's Eye himself according to the latest rumours – and Jaime had been relieved from his babysitting duties to command the last assault of the campaign.

King Rhaegar was not keen to use other Kingsguards...the scion of Casterly Rock was not sure Barristan Selmy, Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne had left the King's sides since they had left the Banefort System and there were now three empty spots in the Order. The Seven only knew what kind of Knights their Lord and Master was going to accept once this conflict was over...

"Their fire is light and uncoordinated." The son of Lord Tywin Lannister affirmed. Even without a tactical display next to him, it looked like half of the Ironborn artillery had utterly missed and of those which didn't, many had failed to penetrate the armour. The more they looked, the more it became obvious the Ironborn had been unprepared to fight a war on their home planet.

Take the choice of Pyke as their last redoubt for example. At first sight, the idea of organising the defence here was not too bad. Each of the mini-fortresses composing Pyke had been built on a sort of mini-island surrounded by abrupt high cliffs. The relief was deadly, volcanic and impossible to climb. Not that climbing was an option since the dark towers were overseeing seas of acid. An amphibious assault – a specialty of the Riverlanders – was impossible as metal hulls would not survive long before being full of holes. Each of the forts and spires was crawling with anti-air guns; entire wings had paid dearly in futile attempts to destroy them. Orbital strikes were not an option either. Even if Rhaegar had not wanted to parade in the household of his traitorous Lord Paramount, the weather and the electromagnetic disturbances provoked by centuries of storms had forced the warships in low orbit to remain silent.

But it did not mean this was a good place for a last stand. The citadel was a dozen of island-fortresses connected between themselves by great bridge-elevators and in theory it meant the Greyjoy reavers could reinforce the stronghold facing the heaviest assault. In theory. In the real world, Jaime had positioned over two hundred guns to shoot the great bridge-elevators and after several missed shots whoever was in command of the enemy side had refused to deploy the metallic connections between the islands already in range of the Westerosi artillery. As a result, it was a single fortress which was enduring the undivided wrath of sixteen thousand guns, not a dozen. And Balon Greyjoy and his captains could not reinforce or resupply it least his artillery blow these reinforcements into oblivion.

"The fire of the enemy is weakening, my Lord!" Exclaimed another General carrying as many shiny medals as the first after about five hours of artillery duel.

Monitoring reports told Jaime this was the truth. The shielding and the weird black-matter devices used by the Ironborn were crushed one by one under the weight of lasers and explosives. It could have gone even faster if they had been able to deploy Behemoths. Alas, the relief of Pyke was too uneven to risk the gigantic machines so they had to do it this way.

"They should have been more careful where they stored their ammunition."

Unless he missed his guess, most of the Ironborn ammunition for their Ironrams, Ironwraths and Nightbringers had been placed in the greatest island-citadel, with the bridge-elevators transporting what was needed to the gunners. Except that once the bridges weren't available anymore, the explosives were staying in their subterranean warehouses and the guns were silent. He was not going to complain; it meant fewer good Westerners would die.

"What are our losses?"

"About five hundred of our guns are out of action. The engineering sections say they will be able to put about one hundred in service."

These were perfectly acceptable losses and Jaime knew the casualties had already been replaced by fresh crews. Still, light or heavy the assault would have continued. Rhaegar, supported by Lord Tyrell and his Lord Father in this occasion, had demanded that Pyke was to be a dire lesson for any who thought about challenging the might of the Targaryen dynasty.

It took five more hours for the first breach to be created in the black walls of Pyke. This was not the end, needless to say. This fortress was just the first step towards the throne where Balon Greyjoy was seated and Jaime did not doubt that at this very moment a team of demolishers was busy sabotaging the bridge-elevators to ensure the invaders would not capture the next fort in a single swoop. But it was the beginning of the end and a sure sign that soon the Greyjoy Rebellion would be a mere footnote in history.

"I suppose it is time." There was no need to rush things; by the exclamations of joy and the parts of the wall projected to the skies, this was just the first breach of many. "Prepare the troops for a mass assault."

The young Kingsguard did his best to maintain a level of enthusiasm in his voice but he didn't know if many men of his audience were fooled. His offer to participate in the battle had been firmly rebuffed every time he had asked. And thus he would stay here, watching the agony of Pyke in the distance.

"You heard Lord Jaime! Ready the 6th Army of the Rock and the 122nd Army of Highgarden! The 2nd Crown Army and the 1st Army of Darry will be in support!"

As long columns of tanks escorted by soldiers in red, green, gold and brown raced to take their pre-battle positions, the magnitude of the hammer about to fall on the Ironborn thick heads was astounding. Over a million and half men were mustered to crack a single citadel and there were dozens more behind waiting for the next bastions. If it had been a all-Western group the number would have been smaller but Reach armies were by their very nature gigantic – the next best thing to a million men by themselves while the Western armies mustered at the Banefort had a quarter of these effectives.

On the other side, the different intelligent services had concluded the Ironborn had managed to salvage between five hundred and seven hundred thousand men from the debacle of Lordsport, their pre-invasion garrison and a few elite units guarding their King. And these men were dispersed across several forts, unable to come to the rescue of their brethren.

"Launch the assault." After a moment of silence he added on the general frequency a battle-cry which had spread like wildfire in the last days. "Death to the False King!"

Mere seconds later the words were screamed by hundreds of thousands mouths in a guttural roar Balon Greyjoy himself was able to hear.

"DEATH TO THE FALSE KING!"

An endless wave of soldiers surged out of the trenches and charged the destroyed black walls. The Ironborn defiance was almost over.

* * *

 **Lord Captain Urrathon Blacktyde, 12.04.290AAC, Pyke System**

This was the end for them.

As he entered the throne room with his last bodyguards, Urrathon Blacktyde knew the Rebellion was in its dying throes. His men had done their best, but they were not miracle-workers. And short of the Void God Himself answering their prayers and destroying the greenlanders, there was no hope of victory anymore. Skill, courage and resolution had been really useful holding the lines in desperate days but bravery and strength could not kill the screaming crowds the dragons had sent against them. They were mere thousands against millions. They were lone warriors against an implacable tide. And one could not defeat the elements in a strength contest.

The walls, the floor and the ceiling were trembling slightly under the detonations of the artillery. The unbelievers were at the gates.

"My King." Urrathon bent the knee in front of his liege. On the throne of Pyke, Balon Greyjoy was now clad in his finest battle-armour, the golden kraken presenting a star contrast against the midnight-blue. A thrall was holding the great vibro-axe on the right while on the left another servant was presenting the kraken-shaped helmet. "The gates will not hold another hour."

Balon visage became more strained and slightly paler. His armoured fists tightened around the dark arm rests so powerfully the Lord of Blacktyde feared for a moment Balon was going to break the very seat of power.

"So it will end that way." The voice of the man who had been the greatest reaver of his generation boomed in the almost empty hall. "I knew the greenlanders were weak. I knew the reptiles who dare call themselves dragon were unworthy of our oaths. But I didn't know these 'rebels' were gutless and content to eat the scraps of King's Landing's table. Starks, Arryns, Martells: they are all the same. If they had a spine in their body, they would have risen with us and killed the Targaryen Dynasty. But they are cowards and faithless weaklings."

The eyes of the eldest son of Lord Quellon Greyjoy were dark and unblinking.

"If this is to be our last-stand, so be it." Continued the Lord Reaper of Pyke. "We will send as many greenlanders as we can in their Seven Hells before going feasting in the Halls of the Void God." The Iron King expression went back to a sinister glare.

"Has Operation Black Vengeance be executed, Lord Blacktyde?"

Personally Urrathon was far from convinced this plan was going to be enough for the revival of their culture. But his liege had given the orders and he obeyed. He was not like these defeatists of Botley and Wynch who had surrendered once their holdings were in danger of being lost. No, he would not shame his ancestors and the Void God. Like Garen Volmark when the first line of defence of Pyke had been stormed, Urrathon would fight to the end. He prayed Gwynesse and his young son Baelor would understand.

"Yes, my King. The Void Priests and as many officers we could remove from the defence of the citadel have been able to escape before we were encircled. They have been given your orders to lay low for the next years and reorganise the resistance against the greenlanders. The last reports before we were cut off indicated about a dozen of core groups have already been formed to lead the resistance against the occupation forces Rhaegar Targaryen and his lackeys will leave here."

At the gesture of his sovereign, the Lord of Blacktyde rose from his position of respect.

"My men are destroying every record as we speak. Money, hideouts, resources, our hidden shipyards and several of our sympathisers in Westeros and Essos...this information will not fall in our enemies' hands because of us. If the greenlanders want to find them, they will have to search them the hard way."

The hard way being in some cases searching asteroid per asteroid the entire system of Great Wyk. Frankly he doubted any greenlander was that long-sighted and meticulous.

"Good, very good. You have served me well, Urrathon." The new Lord Captain felt his heart beat faster at the recognition of his King. "With Lord Volmark, you were the most dedicated of my bannersmen and I thank you for your service. You know my will."

Urrathon nodded gravely. The fury the greenlanders had shown in the Battle of Lordsport had made clear the Lions and the Roses were not exactly eager to see their opponents surrender. If you still had a big force under you like Botley, surrenders were possible but in the fires of battle, many deserters and retreating units had been butchered as they stood.

Given the circumstances, it was highly unlikely they were going to spare the men defending the citadel of Pyke. In turn, it meant the Ironborn would need a new King once the Rebellion was ready to be reborn from the ashes of the past. The instructions and the line of succession had been delivered to the captains who were going to lead the resistance.

"Victarion is your Heir." It had only been a few hours before the great assault that they had had confirmation that the brother of their King lived. Details were unfortunately scarce, but Balon had been ecstatic on the subject.

The ground trembled as the enemy artillery and flyers caused more damage. All guns were now lacking in ammunition and half of the bastions had been silenced. Once the Great Keep was stormed the other half would not survive for long. The enemy had planned methodically the assault – the hand of Lord Tywin Lannister no doubt.

"Victarion is my Heir." Confirmed King Balon Greyjoy. "Theon has shown no sign of being worthy to lead House Greyjoy and Asha is a woman." The last word was pronounced with disdain, a feeling which spread thorough the throne room. The greenlanders may be weak and feeble enough to grant the right of rule to females but the Ironborn were not decadent. No woman had ever reigned over one of the eight major systems of the Iron Sector and none would. Commanding was a privilege of men. The place of the women was servicing their lord, not ruling.

And then alerts blared and the noise of battle exploded to horrific levels. A young reaver ran in front of their liege and bowed hurriedly. His armour was stained with blood and his weapons looked literally about to break at any time. As for the golden kraken above his heart, it had almost disappeared under the blows the armour had taken.

"The gates are breached my King!" Gasped the reaver. "They are coming!"

King Balon Greyjoy stood immediately and roared. All the vitality he had had in his young days had returned and the great axe was raised over his head.

"Close the doors and don your armours! What is dead may never die!"

The three scores of guards charged of his protection and the few remaining reavers shouted back.

"What is dead may never die but rises again, harder and stronger!"

Minutes passed and the midnight battle-armours stood in three neat lines. The fortress was crumbling under the weight of the endless bombardment. Loud noises resonated each time the walls, ceilings and doors were exploding or falling apart. Then they began to hear them. Screams of agony, the familiar clangs of melee weapons fighting and shattering arrived to their ears. The Ironborn battle-cries could be listened to, but they were drowned in the shouts of the greenlanders.

And finally the moment came. Loud strikes went against the great doors guarded on each side by two kraken statues. An improvised ram or something equally strong had been brought by their enemies and the last protection of the throne room started to cede.

"You are Ironborn of Pyke!" The Iron King urged his guard and the one hundred-plus men surrounding him. "We do not sow! We do not surrender! No matter how many soldiers come from this door, you will kill them and teach them they are nothing!"

For a moment the strikes on the other side of the door stopped, like the attackers had been discouraged by this speech. Five seconds later however, this hope was mercilessly dashed. The clang when it came was terrible. It was like a giant of the legends had struck the door.

The doors of the throne room of Pyke had been built in an age where every grand captain could rise to lead the Ironborn and every man could challenge the incapable reavers. They were solid and had been toughened to resist many things. This time they proved insufficient. The right part of the door was shredded in an awful shriek and then the rest of the protection fell apart.

The Ironborn went silent; they waited what was going to come out of the newly created dust cloud.

A shadow appeared and Urrathon like many others gasped in stupefaction.

The reavers had been familiar with the prodigious height and size of Lord Victarion but his former commander was tiny compared to the colossus in front of them. The newcomer was thundering over them like a mountain. The battle-armour was so big it was incredible a mortal could wear it. It was not kept in very condition: the original colour was virtually impossible to guess as the quantities of blood and various fluids having poured over it had eliminated most of the paint. In his right hand was a very nasty claw coursed by threatening sparks. In his left was a great shield in the same battered state of the battle-armour, but an emblem of three dogs was still visible.

"Kill it! Kill the Beast!"

Eager to avenge the countless murders the monster had committed at Lannisport, Lordsport and Fair Isle, the Ironborn charged, murder on their lips.

"What is dead may never die!"

The imprecation which went out of the gigantic armour did not sound human.

"I AM CARNAGE! DEATH TO THE FALSE KING!"

The first Captain to close with the Beast took one of the claw's pikes right in the neck and died instantly, his protections bypassed like they didn't exist. A single strike saw five men throw in the air and they hadn't even been the real targets. Urrathon brought his rifle in his hands and fired, but the massive protection absorbed the hit without problem, leaving only one more scratch to witness of the shot.

The Iron Guard screamed and did their best to encircle the monster but no matter what they did, their enemy had inhuman reflexes and each time the great claw elongated, an Ironborn was torn apart. Urrathon received one of these corpse parts directly in the helmet and was thrown several metres away under the power of the impact.

It took only seconds to stand up again but when he did, the King was now standing alone against this unnatural opponent. A few of his men were trying to back and fight but they were wounded. Urrathon felt pain in his head, chest and arms. He knew he wouldn't reach the fight in time but he tried to advance, to do something, anything to protect his liege.

The vibro-axe of the Iron King slammed into the bloodied armour but while it managed to pierce the outer layers it was clear the abomination underneath was not harmed. The Beast threw away its shield, killing two of the Iron Guard survivors.

"DEATH!"

Balon tried to evade but his opponent was incredibly fast and seized him in a grip of titanium. And then in an abominable fashion, the monster tore their King apart. The arms came first, just as the axe hit the ground, useless and forgotten. The legs were next and then it was just like an animal was trying to bathe in blood. Balon screamed but his mouth was silenced as the Beast pushed his head against the dark floor and outright flattened it, sprinkling the entire room in gore. In mere seconds the Head of House Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of Pyke was dead and its remains were desecrated by his murderer.

Balon was dead. His intestines were carelessly splattered against his throne.

Balon Greyjoy was dead. How could the galaxy be so unfair? Why had the Void God not intervened?

Urrathon saw the red and green battle armours advance in the throne room. He watched as many removed their helmets and vomited at the bloodbath their pet monster had provoked. Maybe they would accept his surrender if he laid down his arms. But he never would stop.

"For the Void God and for the Iron King!"

Vibro-sword in hand, the Lord of Blacktyde attacked the abomination which had murdered his liege and struck the customised hulk in a damaged joint. Urrathon would have settled for a grunt of pain but there was not even a sign he had inconvenienced his enemy. The dark lenses of the helmet looming over him reflected only war and death.

There was a sudden and intense pain and Urrathon Blacktyde saw only darkness.


	10. The Dragon's Victory

**Greyjoy Rebellion Arc**

 **Chapter 6**

 **The Dragon's Victory**

 _How long does it take to crush all resistance on a rebellious world?_

 _The question had never been seriously examined by the Ironborn when they began their disastrous and ill-conceived rebellion. Judging by the public speeches of the self-proclaimed King Balon Greyjoy, the leadership of the Iron Sector rarely elaborated plans or strategies to simulate a 'Battle of Pyke' before the majority of the Iron Fleet met its end in the battle of the Arbor._

 _In hindsight, the Pyke commanders should have prepared military simulations, if only to avoid the sound humiliation of having their 'we will resist for eternity' proclamations turned against them when the weapons fell silent._

 _From the moment the battlecruiser_ Divine Thunder _opened fire on the longship_ Iron Retribution _to the final surrender of the 5_ _th_ _Siege Army and the Indomitable Line, the bloody assault on the Pyke System lasted eight days, three hours and sixteen minutes._

 _This is the amount of time the Westerosi and Essossi know as the Fall of Pyke, differencing it from the countless insurgencies and rebellion conspiracies which followed after._

 _This the time it took for Pyke to die._

 _At the beginning of the Greyjoy Rebellion, the Pyke System had been the heart of the industrial power of the Iron Sector, and was challenging Harlaw for the title of most populated system with a population of a billion seven hundred and sixty-three millions souls._

 _When the Targaryen-led armada launched its final destructive attack on the Ironborn bastions, House Greyjoy had already bled considerably but still remained extremely powerful. The Harlaw System had more manpower on 07.04.290AAC and the Lords of Great Wyk had a large dwell of raw materials to draw on, but the Lord Reaper of Pyke was still in position to regain control should their opponents spare them the annihilation they promised in their holo-news._

 _It didn't happen. The Fall of Pyke was as brutal and bloody as the strategists who had written Operation Firestorm had believed. Balon's unwillingness to surrender against the orbital domination of the Westerosi fleets and the fact his troops were stationed in areas full of civilians resulted in a massive slaughter._

 _By all accounts, the Fall of Pyke was bloodier than all the battles of the Usurper's Rebellion. When the 5_ _th_ _Siege Army surrendered on 15.04.290AAC, tens of millions civilians were dead. The orbital strikes, the barrages of artillery, the tank battles, the bombardment of refugee columns and many more dark deeds had transformed Pyke into a charnel house._

 _The cost was horrendous for a System which had already been in the throes of economic collapse. When the year 290AAC ended, the population of Pyke was roughly populated by one billion and twenty-two millions souls as the Ironborn who had the money and the connections to escape this war-torn planet did it by the tens of thousands._

 _This was a loss of seven hundred and thirty-nine millions men, women and children. No stellar system could take such losses and continue to live. Especially when one considered the fact the Ironborn men of fighting age had been literally decimated._

 _Of the forty-six millions men defending Pyke against the combined might of the Iron Throne, the more detailed studies compiled by the Dornish officers were of over twenty-eight millions dead, thirteen millions prisoners and five millions soldiers missing._

 _Tens of thousands tanks, aircraft, artillery guns had been destroyed, with the remaining seized as war prizes by the winners. One hundred and six orbital fortresses, the five Blackstone fortresses, sixty-four longships and fifteen super-longships had been erased from this galaxy. All the shipyards, the mining outposts and the remaining industry had been ravaged, dismantled, exploded or taken away by the victorious Targaryen dynasty._

 _The Ironborn had not died alone however._

 _Balon Greyjoy and his Iron Generals had completely miscalculated the casualties King Rhaegar, Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Tywin Lannister were ready to accept in order to crush the Greyjoy defiance. But it did not mean Pyke had been anything but a bloodbath of incredible proportions._

 _One armoured cruiser, four battlecruisers, nine heavy cruisers, twenty light cruisers, thirty-five scout cruisers and nearly three thousand starfighters had perished in the vicious spatial engagements. And on the ground it was worse. Much worse._

 _The Reach armies, as the greatest contingent of troops, had the dubious honour of claiming the first place in the death department. Eighteen millions Reachers had died fighting the Ironborn, and the overwhelmed medical centres ensured millions more were crippled for life._

 _The Western troops came second, with five millions dead of their vengeful veterans and hundreds of thousands wounded. The River and the Vale loyalist armies saw three millions levies each die on the volcanic soil of Pyke. The Crown Sector had two millions of its children dying in the service of duty here. The Storm Sector lost approximately one million men, a grievous blow as it represented ten per-cent of their small expeditionary force. Dornish and Northern losses were in the low thousands._

 _Compared to the total size of the grand army transported from the Banefort System to Pyke, these losses did not seem that severe, but they still amounted for thirty-two millions men and hundreds of thousands young men had their youth cut short as their bodies were crippled forever. The number of prosthetics of all kinds was completely insufficient to deal with a quarter of the demand. Minds broke before the horrors of a total stellar war. Thousands of tanks, armoured vehicles, guns, assault shuttles and aircraft became durasteel carcasses rusting on the crater-impacted soil._

 _Fortunately, the Fall of Pyke was the last great battle of what the maesters would name from the first months of 290AAC the Greyjoy Rebellion. Harlaw, Saltcliffe, Old Wyk and Orkmont capitulated without further resistance from 08.04.290AAC to 12.04.290AAC. The Lonely Light, ignored by the first offensive, surrendered entirely on 13.04.290AAC. Great Wyk opposed a resistance of principle, but the extermination of the Minor Houses of Steeltongue and Firereaver added to the news of the Fall of Pyke were sufficient to convince House Goodbrother to surrender on 14.04.290AAC._

 _Blacktyde was the last stellar system to surrender on 18.04.290AAC, after a heavy bombardment of the Lannister fleet._

 _The grand dream of Balon Greyjoy and his bannersmen had ceased to exist. There would be no independence, no return to the Old Way, no resurgence of the pirate kingdoms and their conquests across the Sunset Void. The Ironborn had been decisively defeated. Pyke was in ruins. House Greyjoy had been wounded and dispersed. The ruthless fist of the dragonlords was tightening its grip and the war settlements were finalising the economic destruction of the Iron Sector. Instead of a future of wealth and freedom to pillage at will, the Ironborn were going to learn the consequences of rebellion. In a planet consumed by the fires of war and clouded by the ashes of orbital strikes, the torments of military occupation and abject poverty awaited them._

 _The Greyjoy Rebellion was over._

From the Greyjoy Rebellion by Yzabel Tendao, 298AAC.

" _Let them enjoy their victory. It will be their last_." Attributed to Green Priest Syrme, 290AAC, authenticity never confirmed.

* * *

 **Lord Varys Tivario, 15.05.290AAC, Lannisport System**

The room was dark and oppressing. That is, if you considered it a room. At three hundred metres in length and fifty metres in width, there were millions of persons in Lannisport and King's Landing living in smaller homes.

But no one inhabited this place deep under the planet's surface. Built a couple years after the end of the Dance of the Dragons, the Room of Enmity had been built by the Lady of Casterly Rock Johanna Lannister to make sure all her cousins, descendents and allies remembered who the enemy was.

The Ironborn, if you hadn't followed the list of atrocities committed by the Red Kraken and his loathsome reavers during this great civil war.

The Room of Enmity had as a result become a sort of monastery commemorating the hate between the Westerners and the pirates of the Iron Sector. Videos of burnt ships, flags taken from the cold corpses of House Greyjoy and their bannersmen, heads of infamous captains preserved in transparent containers full of liquid nitrogen and other relics from the numerous battles between the two Sectors were everywhere.

Lord Tywin Lannister had proposed this room for the private meeting which was going to decide the fate of the Iron Sector and Rhaegar had gleefully approved. The general mood after the Battle of Pyke was one of deep satisfaction and now the highborn were realising the Game of Thrones had changed once more. New alliances were created; new machinations and plots were whispered in the shadows. Messages of strength and power had to be sent to unruly vassals. This meeting would be the beginning. Few Lords and great warriors were invited, but everyone knew where and when it was going to happen.

Yes, the spoils of war from the Ironborn would go a long way explaining who ruled the Seven Kingdoms. Like the mangled remains of Balon Greyjoy had. Tywin had wanted to add the head of the Iron King to this room's collection, but he had had to take the one of Lord Blacktyde instead. There hadn't been anything recognisable of the Lord of Pyke when the Beast had finished its monstrous deeds.

A trumpet played a martial song and King Rhaegar entered the room, Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent on his heels. Varys knew the Sword of the Morning had been the target of no less than three assassination attempts aboard the royal flagship, but their target appeared to have survived it without obvious scars.

Naturally, every man in the room largely bowed before standing once Rhaegar accepted their allegiance move. The silver-haired sovereign walked in large strides before sitting on the small throne against the eastern wall surmounted by a three-headed dragon.

"Everyone is here, we can begin."

Varys turned his head to watch the other participants. He had known for a week who was going to be invited here but by the half-grimace Lord Mace Tyrell was making, not everyone had good informants.

Perhaps the Lord of Highgarden had hoped there would be more Reach Lords to support him at the rectangular table they were all gathered. Alas for him, the only Reach highborn here was Lord Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove. Lord Tywin Lannister was on the opposite seat of the Fat Rose. As usual, his cold and sinister expression was extremely hard to read. The other Westerner summoned was Lord Leo Lefford. Of the Small Council, there were only Lord Walther Whent in his position of Hand of the King and of course Varys himself. The Stormlands were represented by Lord Jon Connington and the Riverlands by Lord Raymun Darry. The Crown armies had Lord Caspian Pyle for spokesman. And the Vale had Lord Gerold Grafton.

This was all. No junior officers, no aides, no advisors and it did not escape the secret Blackfyre there was absolutely no Lord, General or Admiral in this secure place to raise their voices for the North or Dorne. And the less said about the Ironborn, the better.

Truly it was a wonder why people were calling the realm the Seven Sectors. At best, it was six realms...and at worse it was not a realm at all but a multitude of lordly interests fighting each other for the dragon's scraps. Certainly the smiles some of these Lords were exchanging would have been far more appropriate for enemies than allies.

"My Lords," began the King of Westeros. "Thanks to your valiant efforts, the treachery of the Ironborn has not been allowed to prosper. Balon the Traitor has paid the ultimate price for his perfidy and the betrayal of his oaths."

What a piety Rhaegar was not like his voice. Each of his sentences was pronounced in a manner that was more appropriate for a saint than a king. If the son of Aerys had not been destined to wear the crown, he could have made a formidable singer...but the Master of Whispers was sure he would have killed the entire orchestra on a whim long before reaching the apex of his career.

"This betrayal cannot and will not stay unpunished. House Greyjoy received the title of Lord Paramount of the Iron Sector from my glorious ancestor Aegon the First of the Name under the condition they served him loyally and faithfully. They used it to sow destruction and attack our loyal Lords. For this betrayal, House Greyjoy will no longer govern the Iron Sector in my name."

Every man seated nodded or manifested silently his approval. Rebellion against your liege lord was oath-breaking and Balon Greyjoy motivation to plunge the realm into chaos had been extremely shady no matter the perspective.

There had been a few knights and soldiers willing to let the traitor take the Black, but realistically Balon Greyjoy had signed his death warrant the moment he had donned his crown. After the example of Robert Baratheon, the Targaryen Dynasty was not going to take any chance with rebel claimants.

"The question was who should be granted the noble duty of ruling the Iron Sector." Noble and dangerous, it went without saying. Given the enmities this rebellion had just created, the new Lord Paramount was going to inherit the roots of the uncountable mad schemes Balon and his reaver friends had imagined before their bloody demise. "In the end, I decided that the title of Lord Paramount will go to Lord Rodrik Harlaw."

Many eyebrows rose around the table though Tywin Lannister and Leo Lefford did not appear to be surprised. It was their suggestion then...and it was a far more astute choice Varys would have expected from his monarch. House Harlaw and Lord Rodrik had made no mystery to their fellow bannersmen they were against this war and they had abandoned the mad offensives of the Lord Reaper the moment it was clear their space assets were wasted in futile offensives. Rodrik Harlaw could be considerate a moderate...by Ironborn standards at least. He had the blood ties and the wealth to command the unruly voices of his Sector. And he had the slaughter of Pyke to spread his moderate views now.

If the Westerners, Lord Whent, Lord Grafton and Lord Darry appeared to be satisfied by this decision – the spymaster knew the Valeman and the Ironborn had exchanged some letters concerning literature and trade – Jon Connington was fuming in anger and Mace Tyrell looked constipated. The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands did not speak of course. The poor love-struck fool would never dare speak against the decisions of his beloved King. But as the power-makers at the table were very well aware, Lord Connington had been one of the most vocal speakers to explain the Ironborn had lost all rights to govern on their own. The fat Warden of the South had had far more interested motives. As the Greyjoys were removed from their Paramount prerogatives, the Lord of Highgarden saw no obstacles why one of his own sons could not assume the duty with an Ironborn bride.

"Your Grace...I don't doubt this is an excellent idea..."

It was funny to consider Lord Mace Tyrell an idiot. But with his sole daughter betrothed to Prince Aegon, his power over the Reach uncontested and his wealth only second to the Lannisters themselves, it was better to remember this was a very ambitious idiot with the largest military force of Westeros under his control.

"Yes, Lord Tyrell?" asked pleasantly Rhaegar when it became evident the words had a bit difficulty arriving to the mouth of the Reacher Lord.

"How can we be sure Lord Harlaw will remain loyal?" The question was pertinent...but the Blackfyre spymaster was sure it wasn't the one the Lord Paramount of the Reach had wanted to demand at the beginning.

"I agree with Lord Tyrell, your Grace," added Lord Rowan. "We have just fought and won this war because Balon Greyjoy could not be trusted to serve loyally his vows. What proofs are there that Lord Harlaw won't start another rebellion in ten years when the Iron Sector will have recovered?"

Rhaegar did not answer back immediately. He took about ten seconds to watch the Lords gathered by his will. It did not make a good impression to Varys certainly. You had the impression the King found you unworthy of breathing the same air as him.

"To begin with, we will take hostages." Had there been any people to hide him, the Master of Whisperers and Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency would have rolled his eyes. First answer of the Targaryens to anyone contesting their will was unavoidably to take their families away. And years after they wondered why so many Great Houses were dysfunctional. "Theon Greyjoy will be a Royal Ward until he is considered ready to become Lord of Pyke. Othgar Farwynd, Gev Merlyn..." Followed a long list of names Rhaegar read from a parchment Dayne handed him. "These young Ironborn will return with me to King's Landing."

This was not the end of course. There were hundreds of major and minor heirs to exile from their own homes. Baelor Blacktyde, Symond Botley, Greydon Goodbrother and scores of heirs were handed to the grim custody of Lord Tywin Lannister. Balon Botley, Steffarion Sparr and Aeron Orkwood along with many Orkmont, Pyke and Old Wyk followers would pass the next decade at Oldtown. Gulltown was granted wards with prominent names like Denys Drumm and Sigfry Stonetree. Griffin's Roost had only minor names to host on the other hand: Saliver Saltcliffe was the only one House Varys recognised as truly significant.

And for Highgarden, the lead hostages were Asha Greyjoy and Maron Volmark. Internally, Varys sighed. The ruthless eyes of Lord Tywin and the greedy eyes of Lord Mace glaring at each other proved both had their own ideas to control the Iron Sector for the next generations.

"This is a good start," conceded Lord Raymun Darry. "But these wards will age and eventually return to the Iron Sector." Else they would never be accepted by their own people.

"The cult of the Void God will be banned and its Priests forced to choose between converting to the Seven or the executioner's axe. We are also going to occupy militarily the Iron Sector," declared Rhaegar from his throne. Varys blinked once. Surely he had misheard. But as the smiles grew larger on these highborn faces, he realised the King and his sycophants were quite serious.

This was going to play hell with the treasury, he already knew. Rhaegar had already poured enormous sums in the construction of the infrastructure for his 'secret fleet' in the Westbrook System, a new starfighter program, brand-new warships, brand-new tanks, brand new battleships, rebuilding the capital and more expensive issues. And it was at a time the surplus of Aerys' governance – Tywin's governance if one had to be honest – was a long-gone souvenir. For the first time in several decades, the Crown was going to be in debt...why was he helping these small-minded fools anyway? They were all salivating now that the cake had been brought before them. Never mind that the Iron Sector was already completely and utterly bankrupt.

Truly it was going to be nice when Rhaenyra was crowned and eliminated these useless parasites.

"I await your suggestions."

And on this sentence the unfriendly debate could commence. It took nearly three hours before the base of an agreement which didn't displease all the factions was found. But the red faces, the countless cups of wine they emptied and the tightened fists told that three more hours would not have been a luxury.

"The Regent of Pyke will be Ser Desmond Redwyne." The voice of the eldest Targaryen tolerated no discussion. Mace Tyrell presented a victorious expression, though how this was good for him or House Redwyne was a mystery for Varys. Pyke was a war-torn planet, with columns of refugees swarming the thousands of camps created in all haste. Women had been raped by the thousands, the fortresses, the factories, the habitations and pretty much everything was reduced to the state of rubble. "His is the Regency of House Greyjoy and the military garrisoning of the Pyke System."

The Fat Rose profited from the occasion to demand a toast, forcing Rhaegar to make a pause.

"Ser Tygett Lannister," Tywin showed no sign at all they were speaking of his brother. "-will be the Regent of Blacktyde. His is the Regency of House Blacktyde and the military garrisoning of the Blacktyde System."

For the rest of the men, there was no Regency to handle and the titles handed were somewhat colourful although Varys was not sure on the reasoning. These knights were going to enforce the war reparations and impose an iron fist over the Ironborn survivors. Anything else was powder and illusion for the eyes.

"For Ser Robin Ryger, the title of Castellan-General of Old Wyk is granted." Lord Raymun Darry had few relatives in this world; it stood to reason he had wanted to favour a close ally.

"Ser Lyn Corbray will become the Commander-General of Saltcliffe." If Ryger's nomination was a recompense for good services, here it was certainly not the case. Lyn Corbray had fought on both sides of the Usurper's Rebellion before answering to the loyalist muster of this conflict. In the holocaust of Pyke, it was Ser Lyn who had slain the dying Lord Volmark with his grand Valyrian sword – a move which was not without remembering how he had slain the wounded Prince Lewyn Martell at the Trident seven years ago. His prowess with a sword was undeniable, but the relieved expression of Gerold Grafton told him how little Gulltown and the Eyrie trusted the Corbray cadet.

"Ser Jarmen Buckwell will serve the Crown in the capacity of Defender-General of Orkmont." This time the Master of Whisperers was not sure if it was an award: defended by Lord Caspian Pyle, the former Gold Fists' officer was transferred from a thankless garrisoning in King's Landing to a...thankless garrisoning in the middle of the Iron Sector. The next years would tell if Ser Jarmen would prove competent handling his Crown troops in cities where the gold battle-armours were universally hated.

"Ser Axell Florent is nominated as the new Inspector-General of Harlaw." The Lord of Highgarden was beaming again; really Mace was keen on banishing all potential sources of opposition from his Sector, wasn't he?

"Ser Gregor Clegane will be the Tyrant-General of Great Wyk." Oh, by the Old and New Gods. They had nominated the Beast as a military governor? There was going to be untold bloodshed and violence in the Goodbrother possessions.

"And Lord Corwin Musgood will be the Sentinel-General of the Lonely Light." Undying loyalty or not to King Rhaegar, Lord Jon Connington could not stop a grimace from emerging on his visage. It was a humiliation and an insult, all in one. The Lonely Light did not need an occupation force; it was the smallest of the stellar systems in the Iron Sector and its population was well below a hundred millions souls.

In this case, it was better not to be handed an occupation zone in the conquered Iron Sector. After all, none of the Northern and Dornish Lords were consulted or chosen in the first place. But the Lonely Light...Rhaegar had really signified his displeasure to his servant this time. Perhaps it was the tiny contribution of the Stormlands to the war effort. It might be the lamentable performance of their armies, the slowness most of the lords had to answer their orders. Or according to the good-old rumour central, it was because the Trident super-heavy tanks were prodigious in cooking their own crewmen and unable to pierce the enemy armoured formations.

"What about the war reparations, your Grace?" No surprise there, the question had come from the mercantile Lord Grafton.

"For the betrayal of their oaths, the destruction of Lannisport orbital stations and the massacres they caused, the Noble Houses of the Iron Sector will pay war reparations of one hundred thousand billion gold dragons. Their tithes will be raised by one hundred per cent for the next twenty years and their systems will be entirely demilitarised."

Varys had really no love for the Ironborn...but this was just cruel. The Ironborn had never been a rich Sector and after the heavy punishment which had just taken place, the upper classes were not bathing in gold swimming pools. By comparison, the treatment of the Storm Sector was compassionate and merciful – and Jon Connington for enforcing these terms was the most hated man of his Paramountcy.

And what nobody at this table had the wits to realise...there was no guarantee the Targaryens would respect their own word. Rhaegar had already violated several terms of the Peace of Maidenpool and was behaving like the former rebels were at fault.

 _One day_ , thought the man who had been born under the name Vaelor Blackfyre. _One day Rhaegar is going to commit another imbecility and this time no amount of propaganda and denunciations will save him_.

But explaining this to the men sitting here was a lost cause. Starting with Lord Whent and Lord Tyrell, they were busy debating the best way to destroy what was left of the Ironborn finances.

"What is your decision concerning the surviving members of House Greyjoy, your Grace?" The interrogation came from Lord Lefford once a quarter of an hour had been spent temporarily filling their purses with a wealth they all could live without.

This time it was not the King but Ser Arthur Dayne who answered.

"As agreed in our last conference, Victarion Greyjoy is to be considered a pirate, with a bounty of one million dragons for his capture. Urrigon Greyjoy will be released against ransom, under the stipulation he never takes arms again against the Iron Throne. And Euron Greyjoy..."

"I will handle the Crow's Eye." The steel in these words was such no one contested the sentence of Tywin Lannister. In all honesty, the spymaster didn't want to exchange his place with the cadet of Balon Greyjoy. If a third of his rumoured crimes were true, House Lannister was going to make sure the Prince of Crows regretted to live.

"One month," Amended the silver-haired King. "After this date, send whatever is left of him to the Wall."

By the Seven, it better had not to be one more attempt to fulfil these stupid prophecies! From the Master of Casterly Rock to the Lord of Griffin's Roost, every Lord was confused on this order.

"The Greyjoy succession being settled, we have the replacements of the Kingsguard to cover..."

* * *

 **Lord Richard Lonmouth, 18.05.290AAC, Lannisport System**

Lannisport was a radiant jewel on this victory celebration's day. The sky was a limpid blue, the yellow sun was warming the earth and the wind bursts were mild. It was like the greatest megalopolis of the Western Sector had not suffered last year. The limited ground damage had been entirely repaired, the spires of the skyscrapers were immaculate and thousands banners had been raised to celebrate the exploits of the war heroes.

An atmosphere of joy was entering the heads. Millions of confetti and flowers were thrown in the air, making the great streets a tapestry of bright colours. Music instruments were playing every ten metres, accompanied by thousands of voices screaming at the top of their lungs. The hotels and the popular places were filled to their maximum capacity. According to the most lurid rumours, the whorehouses were in such demand that the workers there were leaving their services utterly exhausted and walking in weird manners. The celebrations had begun forty-eight hours ago, and they really showed no sign of stopping. Fireworks were fired every eight hours, military and civilian convoys paraded without interruption on the Joffrey Champs, the greatest avenue of Lannisport leading to the Leonine Gate.

The balconies, terraces and parks were crowded on hundreds of kilometres. The restaurants and other places selling food had abandoned the idea of normal lunchtimes and were now serving their clients hour after hour, and the cooks and the waitresses were sleeping on couches behind their workplace to have a little rest. The wine, beer, ale and everything which could be considered drinkable was flowing in torrents. Mega-tankers of liquid were drunk by the cheering citizens of Lannisport and the hundreds of thousands having come to see the spectacles. The Bards' Guild had authorised scores of its most prestigious singers to come and play their songs in concert. The circuses were not idle either and Richard had seen more exotic species this week than he had seen in his entire life. There were white lions of the Banefort, hippopotamuses of the Lemonwood, leopards of the Myatt System, hundreds of prey birds from all over the Seven Sectors and elephants from Volantis. Several gigantic swimming pools had been built in different parts of the city to organise aquatic spectacles where orcas, dolphins, sharks and massive fishes or sea mammals were the stars. The Lord of Lonmouth had gone to one where the otters of Gulltown were shown and he had had to admit the animals had produced a pleasant show under the water. All told, the numbers of species invited to the Lannisport celebrations constituted a formidable menagerie.

But if the children and their parents had flocked by the hundreds of thousands to these animations, this agitation was nothing compared to the rally he had under his eyes. From his honour place on the fourth floor of the Grand Lannisport Exposition Hall, the Joffrey Champs and the surrounding area – an area measured in square kilometres – were covered by a red tide. This was at the same time an impressive and a sobering sight. His personal fief of Lonmouth was not exactly a backwater, he had somewhere around a billion citizens under his rule. But this was a population number for an entire planet. Here in the heart of Lannisport, there had to be hundreds of thousands persons. Uncountable Targaryen and Lannister flags were raised in acclamation, going from the little tourist-trap sold at every corner to the gigantic emblems necessitating ten men to carry it.

"It's not something we see every day, aren't we?"

The loyalist Storm Lord sighed. He supposed the man sitting next to him in his private alcove was an improvement compared to the idiotic babble of the young Lord Cafferen but this new companion loved too much the sound of his own voice for his taste.

"No, it isn't. But it isn't every day we win a war."

"I heard Lord Connington wasn't referring it as a war," remarked the Major-General of the Crown Army, also known for their ridiculous gold armour and their nickname of Gold Fists. "If my memory is correct, the words 'vermin extermination' and 'pest control' were employed."

It was at times like this Richard wanted to roll his shoulders. What Jon Connington said or didn't say was his problem, not his. Any hope he had that the battles fought this year would allow his friendship with the Lord of Griffin's Roost to recover had been for naught. The Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector was always surrounded by his court of Crownlanders and Stormlanders and hadn't the time to speak with one of his main bannersmen. Twice he had been in the presence of his liege and it was to receive their marching orders for the assault on Pyke.

The Lord of Lonmouth poured itself a new cup of Arbor red. Force was to admit, he was one of the lucky Lords. Stannis Baratheon had received his instructions by the intermediary of an arrogant Captain...before the Greyjoy Rebellion he had not been sure it was possible for the relationships between Griffin's Roost and Storm's End to deteriorate. That it had indeed happened could not be blamed on the Stag. A new cup and with the new warmth in his body he was able to answer in a manner that couldn't be considered critical of his liege.

"For pests, the Ironborn had very big fortresses and guns."

"That they did," agreed Ser Justin Massey, his blue eyes full of mischief. "Their Leviathans did a lot of damage before I defeated them on the Hoth plains."

Richard groaned silently. Massey had been lucky enough to participate in the greatest armoured engagement on Pyke and never missed an opportunity to let his interlocutors know it. The blonde-haired Crownlander was surely competent, but his promotion to Major-General had given him ideas above his station.

"I heard there were changes on the Small Council." The Stormlander said, in part to cut short Massey shameless explanations of his glorious importance and in part because he was not in the high circles of power at all anymore. If he had had any doubts on it, Richard would have been comforted by the fact he had been 'volunteered' to help Lord Corwin Musgood organise his departure for the Lonely Light System.

"Oh yes, they were." Confirmed Massey with a smile that made his interlocutor wonder what sort of toothpaste could give you teeth so white. "But it was unavoidable since two of its members died bravely for the Seven Sectors and our Great King." Richard feigned not to notice how the last two words had been pronounced hastily and not very enthusiastically.

"Monford Velaryon has been elevated to the rank of High Admiral and Master of Ships." Ser Justin shrugged before serving himself a new cup of wine. "Lucerys' son Jacaerys was far too young and inexperienced to take his father's titles. As a result, who better to replace the Grand Admiral having led our forces to victory at the Arbor than his own cousin?"

"This sounds reasonable." He said while sipping a third of his cup. In the privacy of his own thoughts, Richard far from agreed. Lucerys Velaryon had been a respected Admiral and while no one before the Arbor had been lauding him as a tactical genius, the Lord of Driftmark had been respected by his men and his peers. Monford Velaryon on the other hand was a complete unknown party...the Lord of the Lonmouth System was ready to bet his main advantage had been his family ties to House Velaryon, not his aptitudes to command a fleet or deal with ambitious subordinates.

"Many think so," replied with a large smile Massey. "To replace Lord Commander Hightower, King Rhaegar appointed Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning."

There was absolutely no surprise there. Unless a Lord was blind, deaf and dumb, it had become obvious years ago that the King of Westeros trusted Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent above all the other Kingsguards. If one wanted to be accurate, Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold would be designated a distant third...and by a strange turn of events these three knights had never been deployed to the frontlines of the Rebellion. Thus they made three out of the four survivors, with Ser Jaime Lannister filling the fourth slot.

"Has there been any mention of who was going to become the new brothers of the White Sword?"

"No, but they are rumours they will be sworn in today..." The knight of House Massey watched the crowd with a dreamy expression before remembering this crowd was not cheering him. "Oh, I was about to forget. Garth Tyrell was dismissed yesterday from his duties as Master of Information."

"Really?"

"Really," affirmed Ser Justin. "GTN has not announced it officially; they are waiting the end of the festivities and the return of the court to the capital to inform everyone."

"What has Garth the Gross done this time?"

It went without saying the Chief Propagandist of Westeros had to have done something incredibly idiotic to suffer the King's displeasure. The uncle of Lord Mace Tyrell lifestyle had become an endless source of gossips and scandals in the post-Usurper's Rebellion years but he had always managed to keep his title. Despite his scandalous sense of hygiene, his deplorable behaviour and his abyssal work performance, Garth Tyrell was a Tyrell of Highgarden and this gave him a power and an influence few Lords could match.

"He was filmed participating in an orgy organised by a Lannisport whorehouse where several boys and girls were underage." This was...disgusting, but Richard raised an eyebrow in disbelief. This would not the first time, according to the low-quality holo-papers, that Garth the Gross would have been found in such a compromising situation. Perhaps the King had been sufficiently exceeded this time...or there was another reason for this dismissal.

"Who will replace him?"

"A nobody of the Vale will act in an assuming capacity until the King has found a worthy candidate. Balish? Batish? Barish? I can't remember his name."

On this point, the Crownlander ignorance wasn't a problem. The Valeman was surely a minor bureaucrat or an administrator who had spent months cleaning Garth Tyrell's problems once they surfaced to the light. Once a new Master of Information was named, these desk-jockeys always returned to the shadows from where they came. In a few months, the public and the Lords who matter would have forgotten his very name as it should be.

The roar from the hundreds of thousands Lannisport citizens interrupted his quest for more up-to-date information.

"Ah, we hear them coming."

"We see them too." Richard commented, gesturing at the holographic image in the corner of the alcove. The distance was great, but one could see clearly a formation looking like a large black snake undulating in a sea of red.

Except it was not a snake. It was a crowd of humans –though he could safely say many of his peers would have refused to categorise them as being equal to rest of humanity. And contrary to the rest of the festivities, it was safe to say that had these men been offered the choice not to walk on the Joffrey Champs, they would have gladly taken it.

"They don't look so proud now that they are defeated, don't they?"

Now that the first lines of the Ironborn could be seen, the remark of Justin Massey could be considered true. On the other hand, the clothes the prisoners had been forced to wear were unimpressive in the extreme. None of the men marching in neat lines of fifty abreast with Westerners insulting them on every side had their midnight battle-armours or anything which could be considered a military protection. No, the prisoner Ironborn had been granted simple black shirts and black trousers, nothing more.

It was the colour of shame and defeat for the rebels who had dared challenge the might of the Targaryen dynasty. It was also the only colour these men were going to wear for the rest of their lives. Of the fifteen million-plus military prisoners made in the Greyjoy Rebellion, it had been decided one million would take the Black and join the Night's Watch on the very edge of civilisation. These were the troops breathing the same air of the Westerners today.

"Nobody looks proud in these moments." And the Westerners and the rest of spectators made the parade a true humiliation. Under Richard eyes, there were vendors and officials deposing containers full of rotten tomatoes, jelly and eggs for the civilians to throw at the defeated bannersmen of House Greyjoy. Soon enough, a rain of tainted food fell on their heads.

It was clear after a few seconds that all Ironborn from the lowliest recruit to their highest officers had expressions of pure loathing on their faces. The Stormlander Lord winced and hoped these holo-images would not be shown on the Iron Sector. There was already too much agitation in the conquered planets...no need to inflame further the tensions.

"What are the names of the leaders who chose the Watch instead of bending the knee?" Justin Massey asked without turning his eyes from the endless passage of the Ironborn formation. In spite – or perhaps because – the men in black were marching in rows of fifty and at a rapid pace, the snake-like formation was endless. This parade of shame and humiliation was going to take hours at the very least.

"Their highest-ranked Army commander is one Iron General named Aladale Wynch, I think." There were very few of these Ironborn Generals still breathing, Richard knew. Decorated by Balon Greyjoy in person, these reavers had nine out of ten times decided to die with their men in a bloody last stand. The others were missing and had to be buried under the tons of rubble formed by the orbital strikes and artillery levelling. "His second is a Pyke man, Cottar-something. The longship captains who didn't want to bend the knee are Lucas and Eldred Codd."

And if the losses of the Ironborn ground forces were dreadful, the casualties endured by the navy and the rest of the spatial forces were several order worse. As an interesting fact, the overwhelming majority of the men walking right now in front of them were army warriors. The first transports repatriating the longships captured crews were in transit from the Arbor and the Shield sub-Sector and the spatial defences had been annihilated in the Battle of Pyke.

After a few minutes of watching the parade of the vanquished, the movement became rather boring and the two men left the alcove to join the banquet in the huge dinner rooms of the Lannister Exposition Hall.

They had just finished ordering their food to a rather blushing waitress – Massey sending her roguish looks were certainly appreciated – when the holo-screens thirty metres away stopped advertising the Duff Beers of Duff-Lannisport beverages and began to play the Royal anthem _Fire and Blood_.

After thirty seconds of music, the Targaryen flag disappeared to reveal a holo-video of the King in front of the Leonine Gate, accompanied by the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Arthur Dayne. Three men in pristine white battle-armours were kneeling before their sovereign. A wall of text in the lower part revealed their names: Ser Preston Greenfield, Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Garth Hightower. After the honorific presentations, came the moment of truth.

"Do you swear to serve the King's will until death releases you from service?"

"We do," replied the three warriors in a single voice.

"Do you swear to protect the King from harm, great and small, no matter the risk to your life?"

"We do."

For all the good it had done to King Aerys...none of the Kingsguards had been here in his last hour to defend him.

"Do you swear to protect the King's name and honour?"

"We do."

This one had to make plenty of Northerners, Stormlanders, Dornish and Ironborn roll in their graves.

"Do you swear to keep the King's secrets?"

"We do."

To be sure, this one had been respected.

"Do you swear to forsake all family ties and sire no children in the King's service?"

"We do."

Justin Massey's visage transformed into a feigned image of despair. Understandable, the disgrace of Ser Lucamore the Lusty had never been forgotten.

"Do you swear to protect the Royal family from all threats?"

"We do."

What a fine vow to swear when half of the time threats had come from within, one royal child was in the Northern Sector and the other was at Sunspear. And hadn't the King been forced to foster his sister at Braavos recently?

"Then stand, brothers of the White Sword. May your service give honour to the Kingsguard."

Three great white cloaks were brought and tightened on the shoulder pads of the new Kingsguards. But as the applause soared to the skies and tens of thousands mouths roared their approval, Richard Lonmouth frowned. Three new Kingsguards nominated but these three men were coming from two Sectors. Worse, one was a Westerner and the other two were Reachers. Rhaegar had all but declared he was favouring Highgarden over Casterly Rock in the heart of Tywin Lannister domains.

If he was ready to bet on the outcome of this political gamble, the Stormlander would not predict a happy future.

 _Bah, we are at peace now. Let's enjoy the present_.

Five seconds later, Massey thanked the waitress carrying their plates by a long kiss on the mouth.

* * *

 **Lady Ynys Yronwood, 20.05.290AAC, Lannisport System**

The Yronwood Heiress didn't like the Westerners and their Lannisters masters. But when she looked at the gigantic celebrations organised everywhere in Lannisport, she had to admit they knew how to throw a party.

The fireworks, massive parades and concerts had started five days ago and showed no sign of abating. Ten days of celebrations had been decreed by the King and their Lord Paramount to put the memory of the failed Ironborn Rebellion out of their minds and it was effective. Each day had seen more alcohol consumed than what the entire planet consumed in a month. When the festivals were over, a lot of smallfolk were going to have difficulties to remember their own mind, where they lived and what work they were supposed to go early in the morning.

The agents of the Crown Intelligence Agency and the other spies the dragon's followers had sent to watch her were not immune to this atmosphere. Oh, they had tried to resist and moderate their appetites in the first day or two but in the end, Westerosi were far too prude in their lives to have a chance against a Dornish lady.

By the third day, none but the children and girls serving the Spider were following her for more than an hour. By the fourth, the skilled agents were making some random checks during the day and night, but the pool of skilled operators the Master of Whisperers had was evidently limited in the Lion's Den. And the spymaster of the King had likely more critical issues to deal with than the scandalous and inappropriate behaviour she had shown in public. There were some new heads regularly trying to get in her good graces, but they were easily handled.

Not that she hadn't enjoyed it, mind you. The young knight sent by the madman on the Iron Throne this afternoon had fainted when she had proposed to join her and her two bodyguards for a foursome...by the time the hotel staff had reanimated him, Ynys was long gone.

It did not take long to find the hall where the people she wanted to contact were located. If the Westerners loved to party, the warriors drinking and partying in this upper-class club were doing enough ruckus to wake up the dead and give them a headache. A third of the men were dancing on the tables and it was still relatively early in the evening.

It did not mean her arrival had not been unnoticed. A few of the lightly-clothed women and the feasting officers had surprisingly alert eyes for supposedly drunk people. Guards were discreetly waiting in the shadows and many had weapons next to them just in case.

And then there were unimpressive uniformed navy personnel here and there. They lacked the ostentatious decorations and the pompous additions Reachers and Crownlanders took for granted, but the fluidity in their moves and the manner they looked at you told Ynys she was in presence of a pack of very dangerous predators. If she had passed the doors to begin trouble, the likelihood of her body never being found would have been very high.

The man who rose from a nearby table was certainly a good example of this. His traits were not of the Northern Sector, but everyone having studied a few minutes the history of the Usurper's Rebellion seriously.

"My Lady Yronwood. What an unexpected pleasure."

At close distance, the Northern Captain did not look terribly threatening...which proved beyond doubt appearances weren't everything.

"Captain Seaworth."

To his credit, the famous – or infamous depending on the point of view – blockade-runner of Storm's End concentrated on her eyes. He did not look at her very daring yellow dress, her breasts, her legs or her ass. Whoever Davos Seaworth had married was a lucky woman. Faithful husbands like these did not crowd the streets and they were a rarity in Lannisport these days.

"It is Commodore, my Lady." The former smuggler politely corrected her. "I've been promoted." Many men would have started to boast for hours of their elevation but the Crown Sector-born officer wasn't a typical braggart. The small and polite smile was the only sign Seaworth was proud of his promotion.

"Congratulations, Commodore." And the Heiress to the Yronwood title was sincere. Some idiots from King's Landing, the Arbor, the Rock or Highgarden would proclaim this was the proof Northerners were all barbarians and unable to recruit highborn nobles to serve on the flag bridges. She didn't share their opinion. The Northern battlecruiser squadron had manoeuvred in the last parts of this Rebellion with unity, skill and discipline. "My apologies for the surprise visit but I would kindly ask for a moment with Lord Manderly if he is available."

A Reach knight would have sniffed at her presumption to arrive unannounced and without appointment. A few sentences would have been uttered, insisting the time of an exalted Admiral-Lord was far too valuable and muscled guards would have escorted her outside in the next seconds. Commodore Davos Seaworth just nodded once and said "follow me" before marching in direction of the upper floors.

They had to climb two series of stairs and open six doors to arrive where the Lord of White Harbour was seated. Unlike in the entrance hall, the Northerners after the first steps made no effort to maintain the illusion they were partying or enjoying being here.

One in three men and women were in battle-armours and an atmosphere of siege was everywhere. The Manderly troopers did not feel welcome in these Lannisport celebrations – not surprising since Rhaegar had expressed in every possible fashion the nasty fate awaiting those rebelling against his authority.

Lord Wyman Manderly was alone in front of a holographic display when they entered. Unlike the many times Ynys had seen him when the military orders were given, there was no trace of food anywhere in the room and the decoration could be described best as utilitarian. The paintings, the tapestries, the flowers, the gold and the silver were absent.

"My Lady," said the Northern Admiral. The eyebrows and a small gesture of his fat hands showed her visit had not been expected but the surprise otherwise was well-hidden. The cliques accusing the men of Winterfell and their vassals to not understand politics were completely out of touch with reality. "I suppose this visit must stay...unofficial?"

The Dornish Lady nodded and her interlocutor taped a combination on a little device hidden behind the display. Seconds later, the holographic map of the Westeros Quadrant flickered out and the familiar odour of burnt listening devices arrived to Ynys' nose.

"Ah, better." Wyman Manderly smile this time appeared genuine and friendly. "We are removing these bugs every day, but between the servants and the drones, they are always finding new ways to monitor our moves."

"How inconsiderate of them."

"Quite."

The massive man chuckled, posing his large backside on a throne-like seat conceived to support his weight and indicated her silently another chair. Davos Seaworth quietly left the room and closed the wooden door. They were alone.

In other circumstances, the daughter of Lord Anders Yronwood would have chit-chatted for an hour, demanded refreshments, tried to seduce the man in front of her and many other distractions the highborn took for granted. That said, Northerners were notorious for their disgust of these Southron sensibilities, Admiral Manderly wasn't looking at her robe or what was underneath it, and moreover she hadn't the time. Morons they may be, but the Targaryen agents would soon try to discover her location and her activities. It was not a time for long speeches and two-edged dealings.

"My time is limited so I will be blunt. On behalf of Prince Doran Martell, I have been sent to secure a potential alliance between Dorne and the North."

Fortunately, Wyman Manderly did not burst in laughter or replied with a loud "no" like the River and Vale Lords she had contacted in the last days. Whether they hated the man on the Iron Throne or not, anti-Dornish feelings were still very well-spread. It was hypocrisy of course when one looked at the massacres the Lannisters had done at Castamere, Tarbeck and Pyke, but it didn't change the truth.

"I am happy to hear your words, my Lady." The posture the Northern Lord was taking on his seat was similar to the large aquatic mammals the Lannisport spectacle companies had exhibited in the last five days. "And I'm sure my liege will be happy to hear it too. But certainly you understand I simply can't take you at your word. Out of the Northern Sector, we are unpleasantly surprised how quickly men of honour are to break their vows and their blood ties."

Ynys narrowed her eyes in deep thought. This was surely a commentary against Edmure Tully's behaviour. The young Lord of Riverrun had been knighted at the end of the Rebellion and recognised in his lordly duties...and days after he had relieved his uncle the Blackfish of all his duties. The System of Riverrun alliance with the Starks was dying as they spoke. Normally, this would be a catastrophic loss for the Rebel Cause. But the brother of the defunct Lord Hoster had departed Riverrun with thousands of veterans sharing his views and if the new Lord of Riverrun introduction speeches at Lannisport were any indication, the cretin was unaware how badly his military forces were crippled.

"This is...regrettable." It was a generous understatement but saying more would not help the current situation. "But Dorne is committed to destroy Rhaegar's power and life. Once he is removed, Sunspear will place his legitimate daughter Princess Rhaenys on the throne and the...issues which have arisen in the last decades will be corrected."

It was a simple message and it had the advantage of being the truth. She wasn't completely honest: Dorne save one person was ready to take their vengeance for Princess Elia. Unfortunately, this 'one person' was Prince Doran Martell.

This was why the next sentence of the Lord of White Arbor was like a cold shower.

"The North will not support the elevation of a new Targaryen claimant on the Iron Throne."

And the visage of the Admiral was deadly serious. There was no joke, no hint of a negotiation tactic. Ynys tried not to show the disagreeable feeling she had inside her stomach. Deep inside, she had thought she was aware of the loathing the Northerners felt towards the dragons. It appeared she had perhaps underestimated it.

"My Lord...Princess Rhaenys is not her father. She has left King's Landing six years ago and has excellent reasons to hate the murderer of her mother."

But as the arguments left her lips she was aware the Northerner knew this information and had already delivered this judgement with these facts in mind.

"I will grant you the Princess has not shown any signs of madness, though I have never seen her in person." The commander of the Northern expeditionary force conceded. "But the North remembers very well how several Princes who were perfectly sane in their childhood proved completely mad once they were past their thirty name days."

No names were pronounced but there was no need to. The Targaryen dynasty in three hundred years had proven extremely proficient at birthing monsters.

"You have a Princess at Winterfell."

"True." The admission was replied too easily. "But Lord Stark does not intend to crown her to my best knowledge." There was nothing funny in the eyes of the 'brainless glutton' as the Crownlanders and the rest of the loyalist coalition had nicknamed him when she met his eyes. "We of the North have long memories and we take seriously our oaths. We remember how many Noble Houses discarded their allegiances to Queen Rhaenyra when the Hightower gold began to flow in their purses. We fought in the sands of Dorne and thousands of vows were broken there. We were denied time and time again royal marriages, lost ancestral rights, were forced to conceded the creation of the New Gift and in the end, our Lord was burned alive because he had the gall to protest the rape of his daughter."

Arms which were too fat suddenly gripped the armrest so powerfully Ynys heard the brown wood cracking.

"No, Lady Yronwood." The voice was calmer and had returned to softer levels. "We have suffered too many humiliations to bow again to the dragons. We will fight the next war for the North, not for an Iron Throne which couldn't care less if we lived or if we died as long as we lick their shoes."

As a Lady of Dorne and a House which had chafed for centuries under the Martell governance, she could understand their point of view. And they might very well get away with it too. Lord Eddard Stark was not Balon Greyjoy. The Lannisters and the Tyrells had no idea what sort of blade they were going to be stabbed with when Winterfell legions decided to storm their gates.

"You are still going to be terribly outnumbered." This was a point that the generals of Casterly Rock and Highgarden would certainly recognise in the first minutes after a declaration of independence. "Your allies in the Storm, Vale and River Sectors are getting scarcer and Rhaegar is emptying the Royal Treasury to finance his 'secret fleet'."

"Fleets aren't built in a day," answered philosophically the large Lord. "And by the time it will be, the Rapist will understand he has more important problems close to home..."

* * *

 **Euron Greyjoy, 15.06.290AAC, Casterly Rock System**

Once upon a time, Euron would have been amused by the scene of Westerners trying to torture him.

For all their ruthlessness and cruelty, the men serving Lannister were just amateurs. Butchery and physical pain were the only things these sad small-minded creatures understood.

But then the Lannisters had never been renowned for their esoteric knowledge. They were just fools storing incredible fortunes in their impregnable fortresses and coveting what could not be bought.

Oh, they had done their best to make him scream. For an unending period of time, they had put him on the torture rack and unveiled the full range of their methods. His feet, thumbs, legs and generally everything non-vital had been crushed, torn-out and replaced by metallic parts. These prostheses were then used to tear apart his nerves with electricity. The Westerners had made him swallow chemical products, partially drowned him. They had infected his organs with diseases. Drugs, whips, hours passed in complete darkness in cages full of vermin had also been in good place.

But to their despair, they had never managed to break him. Their frustration was delicious to savour. Or it should have been, if the pain was not too important. After all once you were burned to the third degree, why should you fear a few more injuries? His powers had been insufficient to protect him this time but after a few hours everything was dull.

He had not broken but his body was ruined beyond repair. The last time they had put him in front of a mirror, it was like he had contemplated a weird hybrid of spectre and robot. There had been nothing of the old him except two things. The first had been his eye patch. He had had to curse two men to get it back but this tiny ornament had allowed him to retain some sanity and frighten anew these sheep who believed themselves torturers.

The second was his vengeance. Euron should have been a God by now. The Crow's Eye had deserved to be a God! He had been so close from his greatest goal! But he had been thwarted by these abominations of the Void at the last moment.

For this offense, the Others would pay. Euron didn't care he was less than a cripple and that his opponent had been at least six times more powerful than him when they fought on the battlefield of Pyke. Vengeance was all he had left and if he had to destroy the galaxy to reach it, so be it. The Gods, Demons and other cosmic powers of Westeros and Essos could burn for all he cared. But he would have vengeance before the end, this he swore on his damned soul.

What was left of his ears perceived some noise in the distance. The lights were switched on, burning his eyes. Seconds later, he was able to distinguish the ceiling, since he was attached to the rack on his back. A vibration echoed and at a slow pace the metallic support pivoted to a vertical stance, giving any observers the illusion Euron was standing up.

There was no proper time to observe his surroundings. A white airlock opened in an automatic whistling, allowing a column of red-armoured warriors to enter and take position. Their big plasma guns were directly pointed on his chest and his head. Had he been able to roll his shoulders, the prince of Crows would have done it in a heartbeat. Euron would not deny he was very dangerous for these pathetic lapdogs, but laser artillery would not have been able to stop him if he was able to unleash his true strength.

And as he was now, curses were the only weapon he had left...and they were slow and only worth something against weak simpletons. In a physical contest, he would probably lose against a ten-year old girl in his state. This was the point of his reflexion when Tywin Lannister came into view.

Euron had never met the Lord of Casterly Rock before today but the pictures of the Lord Paramount of the Western Sector were everywhere. The stern expression, the shaven head, the bright green eyes, the terribly expensive gold and red clothes...there was no way it could be anyone else. A joke would have been appropriate to sing the praises of this tight-assed highborn but alas the various experiments of the torturers had destroyed his voice amongst other things.

Thus Euron stayed silent and stared in the eyes of the Old Lion. After his short and abominable moment with the Other, staring in the eyes of a mere human was easy.

Usually this little game would stop after a few seconds but the rumours on the Lord of the Rock had evidently some basis in reality. At no moment the former Hand of the King blinked or moved away his gaze.

"You are leaving tonight for the Wall, Crow's Eye." The Master of Casterly Rock affirmed. On everyone else's visage there would have been joy, anger or relief but there was nothing readable here. But it was not a problem for Euron. While he had not the gifts of his so-called 'guide', he had observed the threads of fate recently and as a result knew the fate awaiting Lord Tywin.

The men who had tortured him for so long chose this instant to reveal their presence. But they did not carry the usual chemicals or torture objects they were so fond of today. Instead they were machines he could very well guess the utility. It was not hard, when all the pieces of a battle-armour, life-breathing support and various modules built for void survival were next to them.

"Your prison is going with you," confirmed the Lion as if he had read in his thoughts. "This armour is your new cell...and your future coffin."

An evil whisper he was the only one to hear resonated in his mind. "Appropriate punishment, isn't it? My treacherous apprentice."

Amusement left him faster than Balon had used to preach his 'We do not sow' nonsense. Damn this madman! Damn him! As a voice modulator and an artificial respirator were implanted in his throat, Euron for the first time in years truly loathed someone.

"Do you have anything to say before departing to join your brothers, Ironborn scum? The rapists and murderers are legion on the Wall, you will certainly not notice the difference with your home."

They posed a skull-shaped black helmet on his head, interrupting the little staring war. His voice restored, the Crow's Eye laughed, but the modulators must have had some dysfunction because the shrieking was truly abominable. Good, he could live in this black armour. It gave him a very threatening appearance.

But he was a crow, a bird of ill omen. He could torment the Lion Lord in memory of his idiotic elder brother.

"You will die by the hand of your kin, Lord Tywin Lannister." The voice coming out the loudspeakers was properly inhuman and metallic. "And no one will defend you when it will be done."

* * *

 **Lord** **Rodrik Harlaw, 21.06.290AAC, Harlaw System**

On his display, the Lord of Harlaw saw the little black dot disappear. It was the last confirmation the starship transporting his niece had translated out of the system.

Lord Rodrik Harlaw made an ugly grimace as he finished emptying the bottle of rum in his right hand. Of all the treaty parts he hadn't liked, the guardianship of his niece and his nephew were undoubtedly the worst. Young Theon, exiled to become a ward of the insane bastard the Lords of Westeros called a King. Rebellious Asha, exiled to become a ward of the huge puff-fish who by a mysterious turn of affairs was the Lord Paramount of the Reach Sector.

His sweet sister had cried and begged these last nights, imploring him to change the minds of their conquerors. Alannys had lost her two eldest sons and she had cried all the tears in her body to avoid being separated from her last two children.

The problem was that there was nothing the Reader could do. At first, he had been able to change some terms. Lord Tywin Lannister and a few of his bannersmen had wanted the head of Alannys along with the rest of their ruinous demands. As expected from such monsters, the hounds of the Lion had wanted to murder the widow of Balon Greyjoy. Rodrik had answered them that if they wanted to kill his little sister, they would have to burn Harlaw to the ground first.

Perhaps the Westerners had realised they had gone too far or someone intelligent had acted behind the scenes, but the new terms had been far more reasonable. Well, for a particularly ruthless definition of 'reasonable' he supposed. The Harlaw system systemic product was not going to grow a lot in the next decade.

Assuming of course there would be a next decade for the Iron Sector. Pyke was ruined and bristling with insurgents. Great Wyk and Blacktyde were simmering with unrest. The other systems were not in a better state. Only Harlaw could be considered at peace...and it was because he had eliminated all his opponents and detractors during the failed rebellion.

It was almost amusing, honestly. Reader, they had nicknamed him, speaking the noun like it was a curse. But had they realised that one of the first books he had re-read when Balon had had his genial idea was the Yi-Tish masterwork _The Art of War_?

The Master of Harlaw had known from the start the rebellion of his brother-in-law was going to end his blood and tears. A simple study of the resources available to each side and it was painfully evident the Ironborn had had absolutely no chance to win on their own. They were outnumbered eighty to one, the economy of Pyke had been on the edge of bankruptcy before the first shot was fired and their experience of modern war had been limited to a few skirmishes in the Usurper's Rebellion.

That is not to say there was no chance of victory. Behind Rhaegar Targaryen, Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell, there were endless enemies ready to stab them in the back. A gifted strategist would have understood this and made overtures years before to the former rebels and other angry factions. Unfortunately, the Head of House Greyjoy had had the intelligence of a brick, the stubbornness of a donkey and the sense of realities of a fool. The Iron Fleet and the armies fighting under the kraken banners therefore had therefore suffered their worst defeat since the Iron Throne had been forged.

And now they had to live with the consequences. Harlaw was forced to pay costly reparations which while not completely insane were going to dry his finances. A million Florent soldiers were going to be garrisoned on the soil of Harlaw. His sons were dead, his little sister had lost everyone she held dear and somehow his dear eldest sister Gwynesse was convinced it was his fault her cretin of a husband was dead.

The latter he could deal with. Gwynesse Blacktyde born Harlaw had never been the brightest woman of the Iron Sector, but it seemed decades at Blacktyde had diminished her wits, not increased them. The deaths of his sons...he couldn't.

Harras would stay his Heir for the years to come. Before the news of the Fall of Pyke arrived, he had been somewhat tempted to train Asha to succeed him as Lord of the Ten Towers but now it was out of the question. The Tyrells ambition was visible light-years away and his niece would probably found herself married before she was sixteen no matter her wishes. As for Theon...the capital was perhaps the worst place in this galaxy to raise the new Lord of Pyke.

In these conditions, being the new Lord Paramount of the Iron Sector was very much the image itself of opening a present but finding a ticking bomb in the inside. The trick was going to engineer a strategy which would explode in the face of the new Inspector-General Axell Florent...

"Foxes are beautiful animals but they have not the Florent ears..."

* * *

 **Urrigon Greyjoy, 26.06.290AAC, Pyke System**

Watching Pyke when they allowed them on the new orbital platforms above his homeworld was terribly heartbreaking.

Urrigon had been there in orbit on the _King of Rum_ 's bridge when Balon and Victarion had announced the Iron Fleet was going to sack Lannisport and regain the independence they should never have lost. There had been hundreds of longships mustered here, surrounded by hundreds of space fortresses and the shipyards were crowded by the workers and families who wanted to see the heroes' departure.

Aeron and the _Golden Storm_ had been here too. They had drunk more barrels of ale he could honestly remember. They had watched the hard grey, green and black-brown of the planet where they had been given birth. They had prayed to the Void God for victory. They had shared their dreams of bringing dozens of greenlander salt wives home; their longships would tow merchantmen filled with jewels, gold, exotic products, spices and cutting-edge technology. Balon had promised they were going to be rich and Victarion had confirmed his words while Euron sulked alone and unloved. The Iron Fleet had just to sack the main citadels of the Western Sector by surprise, and soon the name of the Lannisters would be synonym with weakness while the Ironborn were going to be recognised as the strongest people in this part of the galaxy.

For a time, it had worked exactly like Balon had predicted. The unbelievers had been routed and Lannisport had been smashed apart.

And then the dream had died to be replaced by a nightmare. Aeron had died. He was captured trying to avenge him. The _King of Rum_ was destroyed. The Iron Fleet was annihilated. In the Arbor prisoner camps, he and the surviving reavers had waited for the end of the war. Oh how Urrigon had prayed to the Void God during these nights, hoping against reason Balon and the men of House Greyjoy lived and triumphed.

The taunts of the guards had crushed the embers of defiance left in his bones. Balon had died, dismembered by the same monster which had killed poor Robin. The rebellion of the Ironborn was officially over. Urrigon and over five hundred men of the wealthiest Pyke families had been released first. It had not been a favour from their custodians...a lot of secret accounts had been emptied in these hours to obtain release.

And now they could contemplate what was left of Pyke. The homeworld of House Greyjoy was bathed in red and black, with noticeable impact of craters visible from their point of observation. Clouds of ashes were dispersed in the atmosphere, darkening the skies and stopping the sun rays. New volcanoes were in eruption. Cities had been razed. The landscape itself had been altered and levelled by the Targaryen war machine. The planet was still inhabitable...but it was a very near thing. Pyke defenders had fought ferociously but Pyke had fallen nonetheless.

And of the Void God's favour, there was absolutely no sign.

Urrigon felt his tears flowing freely on his cheeks and he wasn't the only Ironborn to cry at the sight of their home broken. It felt like they spent hours watching the new reality awaiting them on the surface. At least until a soldier in green battle-armour slammed him the butt of his laser rifle in the chest, a hit which emptied his lungs out of air in a second.

"Move, Ironborn scum!" bellowed the soldier. "The shuttles are on a tight schedule and we won't wait your traitorous idiots twice!"

Silently, Urrigon obeyed and fell in line with the rest of the prisoners. They marched down several halls, all decorated with colours of Noble Reach Houses. Now that he was noticing it, the soldiers escorting and observing them were Reachers too. Green battle-armours, green uniforms or green tunics were everywhere, with the purple grapes of House Redwyne forming a majority above their hearts.

This was not a quiet journey for the shuttles. Every time they made a step, there was a soldier or a worker to insult them. It was a crowd of grinning greenlanders, their arrogant gestures and faces stuttering in a place they should never have been invited a year ago.

"Where is your Void God now, cowards?" They asked. "Where is your precious Iron Price when the guns are on the other side?"

Some reavers lost their minds there. Screaming in fury, they broke the line and charged in the direction of the man who had insulted them. It was useless, of course. The greenlanders escort was watching them with the eyes of the falcon and they had weapons while the Ironborn were completely disarmed. A couple of seconds later, the enraged Ironborn was crawling on the ground, his head and the rest of his body parts bloodied by a vicious beating.

It was almost a relief when their transport got them out of this place. True, they were piled in a narrow hull with nothing to eat or drink, but the imprecations of their captors were thankfully a thing of the past. And they had no more to watch the sight of their battle-ravaged homeworld.

Pyke had fallen and they had not been here to die in its defence. Urrigon wondered what Aeron would have said...his brother had always found some hope in the darkest events of their life.

After a few minutes, he banished the thought. Aeron was dead...and nothing could bring him back. Before the war, he would have said his sole and only friend dined in the halls of the Void God, beyond the mortal plane. But after this carnage...Urrigon wasn't sure he believed in the Void God anymore.

When they landed, one of the former prisoners of war didn't leave the transport. The beating he had received during the transfer had killed him. The Ironborn could say nothing in front of uncountable ranks of green armours and five battle-tanks waiting for them, but the young Greyjoy felt rage and despair when three arrogant greenlanders dragged him out like one drag a sack of potatoes and proceeded to steal all his valuables. Then the corpse was thrown into a bin destined for the incinerators. No funeral ceremony for the deceased...and no respect for the living either. They were unceremoniously marched before a ruined building which had been once a barrack for House Botley guards.

Now it was surrounded by a sea of tents where the haunted figures of their own people regarded them with scared expressions.

"Hurry, band of lazy rebels!" screamed one of the enemy commanders behind him. "We haven't got all day!"

They were forced to run to the end of the camp, their stomachs grumbling and their breaths tired. They were assigned tents, sheets, a minuscule meal and two bottles of water...and then they were left alone. One might think that their name and their nobility would afford them better living conditions but right now, everything on Pyke had to be rebuilt and the few intact constructions were for the Reach garrison.

To the east was Lordsport. In spite of the weak light and the dark clouds, Urrigon could see the buildings, habitation quarters and factories were so wrecked it seemed an angry god had smashed the city.

And to the west...a forest of tents, crowded by Ironborn with gaunt faces and loathing in their eyes. A whisper in the wind rose as he ate his meagre ration for the day.

"What is dead may never die..."

Urrigon turned slightly his head to see a group of old men who looked suspiciously like Void Priests with regular clothes murmuring in the ears of several families.

"The dead," the survivor of the Arbor grumbled "should have the good sense of stay dead."

Urrigon was done with the Void God. He was done with his brother's Old Way. And he certainly didn't felt proud to be a Greyjoy anymore.

* * *

 **Victarion Greyjoy, 27.06.290AAC, Somewhere in the Sunset Void**

Months ago, the sight of the distant stars had warmed his heart. These days they provided him nausea, anger and disgust.

They were a painful reminder of his weakness. They were the living proof he had completely and utterly failed. It was unacceptable. His wounds had been grievous and humiliating, yes. If the longship _Vigil of Pyke_ had not translated three light-minutes away from the wreck of the _Iron Victory_ , his life would have ended there. This would not have been a good death to be sure. He and his crew would have died slowly as his flagship systems died one by one, the taste of defeat heavy on their tone.

But it did not happen. The _Vigil of Pyke_ had been in good condition for a longship which had just emerged from the greatest space battle of the decade. It had an intact medical bay and its personnel had pumped him full of drugs before operating him six times. According to the Greyjoy captain in command of the starship, his survival was truly a gift of the Void God. And for a few days, his desperate mind had believed the crew and his officers.

They were alive and repairing. The _Iron Victory_ would never fight again of course – the technicians which had examined the hull were divided on the possibility of the Pyke shipyards being up to the task. In the dark depths of the Sunset Void, his superb flagship had to be abandoned and scuttled. But they had rallied laboriously one of the many muster points agreed before they attacked the Arbour. Two captured merchant ships and a single longship had been awaiting them. The _Wrath of Iron_ senior officer had raced back to Pyke, bringing the news of his survival.

It had been for nothing. As the _Vigil of Pyke_ was trying to resolve the hundreds of problems caused by battle-damage, the _Wrath of Iron_ had returned, bringing grave news. Pyke had fallen. Balon was dead. Alive or not, his failure was complete.

Day after day, he had hoped against all odds that the reports had been wildly exaggerated. Messages had been sent by the few couriers and auxiliaries having escaped the hunters of the greenlanders. But no fleet or squadron had broken the blockade of the Iron Circle to join his crippled command. The Lords he had believed loyal and ready to fight to the last were too busy bending the knee and begging for their lives like the cowards they were.

He had failed his King and the Void God.

He was damned, his body was unable to sire any children and his physical abilities were a shadow of what he once was. Every move, from standing up to pointing his arm at a screen, hurt. And it was after soaking his blood in various medications the Essossi gave to their war-slaves. The Void God only knew what the effect was going to be in several years.

But Balon had given orders before Pyke was destroyed and Victarion would follow them. Doing anything else would be a betrayal of the highest order.

"Is the fleet ready?" The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet cursed his weakened voice. A year ago, he would have roared to put some fire in the bellies of his men.

"Yes, my King." The midnight-blue clad officer answered, showing no sign of blinking like so many men aboard the _Vigil of Pyke_ did in his presence.

This was not a proper fleet. They had exactly three real warships, all longships: the _Vigil of Pyke_ , the _Wrath of Iron_ and the _Unbreakable Litany_. In addition to them, there were six transports, eight auxiliaries and five captured merchantmen. It was all that was left to save the Ironborn culture. It was all he had left to make sure their revenge would happen.

"Then give the order for translation." The former captain of the _Iron Victory_ ordered. "The greenlanders patrols will find our coordinates sooner or later and I intend to be on the other side of the galaxy by the time they do."

"By your command, my King."

Victarion Greyjoy turned back his attention to the stars. Yes, he had failed but he would not squander his second chance. They were departing for the Summer Void and then the pirate bases of the Basilisk Sector. But they would come back. And that day, they would all learn the Ironborn never died but stood again, harder and stronger.

"In the name of the Void God, they will all pay. This I swear on my blood."

* * *

" _The North remembers_." Old proverb from the Northern Sector, origin unknown.

" _One thing many Southerners often forget about the Northerners is that they are ruthlessly pragmatic. The enemy of yesterday can be let in peace for a generation or two, the time to deal with the enemy of today. But the North remembers. The Starks remember. And at the moment of their choosing, the legions of winter are unleashed_." Braavosi expert on the Northern Sector, 250AAC.

" _The Long Night is a myth! It is a story to scare children if they refuse to go to their beds at night. But we, my lords, deal with facts, not myths_!" Sentence attributed to Lord Jon Connington upon several strange soldiers' reports, authenticity never confirmed, 291AAC.

" _I hear the wolves howling..._ " rumoured last words of King Aegon II Targaryen, 131AAC.

 **Lord Wyman Manderly, 01.07.290AAC, Moat Cailin System**

The holo-recording ended in a brilliant flash of blue and for five seconds there was only silence in the great tactical room hidden in the foundations of Moat Cailin.

The men and the women gathered here were the Great Lords, Generals and Admirals of the Northern Sector. About nine out of ten had fought in the Great Rebellion against the Targaryens. The majority were battle-hardened killers and would have joyfully sacked the loyalists' stellar systems had they been given the chance. And yet here fear could be seen in their eyes and their mouths were harbouring various expressions of fear and shock.

Wyman didn't blame them. Aside from his liege and the Green Priest, he was the only one of the audience to have seen the recording before today. He too had been horrified at the sight of the Enemy.

Lord Jon Umber was the first to break the silence. The Master of Last Hearth swore violently, shouting a torrent of insults that left most of the room half-outraged and half-appreciative.

"Thank you Lord Umber, for this deep mastery of the Westerosi language," commented lightly their liege, seated on the imposing seat dominating the assembly. The ghost of a smile was on Lord Eddard Stark's lips. The moment of shock over, the men and women in the audience chuckled and laughed. Jon Umber grumbled some half-sincere apologies, generating even more hilarity. "But I would advise not to use such words in public when children are around."

New chuckles echoed against the cold walls of the Moat Cailin citadel. But there was still more than a hint of concern and fright remaining. The news which had been delivered couldn't be forgotten in hours or days.

"The evidence brought back by Green Priest Syrme and his armed escort can't be refuted," said the Lord of Winterfell, articulating each word clearly and ruthlessly. "The Others have returned to our galaxy."

Eyes turned to the unassuming man in dark green robes, who withstood the gazes without effort. The Priest of Taranos hardly looked redoubtable, his weirwood sceptre in his right hand and three of his brethren behind him. But his power had been enough to force the Other female to pause her massacre. The power of the Old God of Thunder and War had struck true while the Seven he worshipped had done nothing to save the slaughtered troops.

 _Why didn't the Warrior intervene against this demon_?

Syrme took three long steps in direction of their liege before stopping, ensuring everyone had a good view of his figure.

"The hour is dire," the Green Priest told the bannersmen of the Northern Sector. "This Other was no mere scout but a true commander of the armies of frost and death. Alone, she was easily able to defeat a dangerous sorcerer like Euron Greyjoy and hundreds of soldiers." The grey-bearded man slammed his weirwood weapon on the cold ground, giving more power to his speech. "Many records have been lost, but it seems the techno-sorcery of these creatures has become even more dangerous than it was during the last War for the Dawn." Nobody opened his or her mouth to protest. They had all seen the video of the massacre and the flash of blue which had made the Other disappear. And this was just the deeds they knew of. It certainly wasn't a coincidence that Euron Greyjoy had decided to self-destruct the Blackstone Fortresses at a moment they were perfectly unarmed from an outside perspective. "You don't act like this if you aren't ready to back it by force of arms. The Others' power is on the rise again and their forces must be mustering on the other side of the Eye of Woe. We must be ready to counter the Great Enemy or we will perish. May the Old Gods protect us."

Wyman shivered and next to him the Lord of Barrowton and his Ryswell wife on his left imitated him. The Northern Lords were not cowards, but unless one was an imbecile, one didn't enjoy the prospect of a war against the Great Enemy. House Manderly hadn't been there the first time of course – or at least if they had, the few archives they had managed to escape with from the Reach to the North had not mentioned it. But the dark tales of the ancient times were still learned in the schools these days. Whether the teachers and the children took it seriously remained to be seen depending on the stellar system, but it was still done.

The old horror stories spoke of a time where the suns of the Northern Sector became cold and darkness covered the entire galaxy. Of legions of corpses and monsters assaulting the citadels of humanity, annihilating everything on their path and bringing the realms of Westeros on the edge of extinction. What was truth and what was rumour after this time...the wights were evidently no mere grandmother's nonsense. Were the ice spiders, the ice dragons and many old terrors true too?

Compared to these threats, the Rapist and his minable servants were nothing. A war against the Others...it would be a new Long Night.

 _And we have forgotten so many things_...

As the servant of the Old Gods went back to where the other Priests stood, Lord Galbart Glover obtained permission to speak.

"The situation is indeed perilous. We must assume the Others know the exact locations of our home systems. We, however, don't know where theirs are. Since there is an entire galaxy on the other side of the Breach-in-the-Stars, searching for them is going to be slightly problematic."

"Not to mention our greatest defence appears to have been easily bypassed," the tone of Lord Roose Bolton was cold and emotionless. "Whatever sorcery the Others used, one of them was at Pyke and the Wall didn't sound the alert. We could have next week an entire enemy fleet jumping in one of our core systems and not have any warning at all."

The Master of the Dreadfort System did not talk of the casualties Northern forces would take in a battle like this one, but the Admirals and Generals in the assistance were able to realise by themselves the destruction of Pyke defences would be an amusing joke by comparison.

"We must reinforce the Night's Watch," growled the Greatjon. "The black brothers' forces have difficulties countering the wildlings with their current forces. If the Others attack now, the Lord Commander and his troops are going to be slaughtered in days. By the Forge of Nantosueltos, if we had not given them our old warships, they wouldn't have a fleet anymore to transport their ranger regiments!"

A significant minority of visages were clearly uncomfortable after this loud tirade. But no man or woman opened his mouth to tell the highest ranked officer of the Northern Marines he was wrong. The Night's Watch was terribly weak. Since the Conqueror had united the different realms and made the Sectors bow to his will, the Watch had started a long period of decline. Great ground and orbital fortresses had been abandoned as the black brothers were unable to maintain and supply them. Wyman doubted there were more than three hundred ships and ten millions men under arms guarding the Wall this year, and if the Northern Sector hadn't helped it would have been worse. The outlaws and criminals sent to join the Night Watch had no military equipment to speak of. It fell to Winterfell, White Harbor, Last Hearth, Karhold and their fellow Northern lords to supply them with winter clothes, tanks, artillery, warships and the military surplus they could spare. The equipment was obsolete by the standard of the Rebellion veterans, but it was far better than what the Southern Sectors provided. Contrary to one might think, dressing someone in black drags did not make him a brother of the Night's Watch. It just made it a burden for the soldiers defending the Wall.

"I doubt our navy and our army have the strength to support the Night's Watch in addition to all our other commitments," said Lord Rickard Karstark, his eyes eerily similar in this light to the Lord of Winterfell's grey colour. "In all the plans made after the last war, we all concluded the Iron Throne was the enemy and the war effort would be directed at the Southern Sectors. If my memory is accurate, we were leaving some reserves at home but nowhere enough to fight a war on two fronts."

"Then we change our entire strategy," intervened the elderly Lord Medger Cerwyn. Once, the sentence was pronounced there were plenty of angry whispers. "I hate the Rapist and his lizard bootlickers, but they don't represent a threat for our survival. The South has never managed to breach Moat Cailin and judging by their performance at Pyke, it is not tomorrow they will achieve it!" The retired Admiral feigned to spit on the ground. "The Others are the real threat. I say we leave enough forces to hold our southern systems and move our forces to support the Night's Watch."

"I would not advise this." The Lord of White Harbour declared, trying to stay calm and collected as every gaze turned in his direction. While he feared the monsters of the old tales, they simply couldn't abandon their entire strategy. The last allies they had in the River Sector and elsewhere would feel betrayed by this brutal change of policy. "First, we ignore when and where the Others will strike. It could be in two years and against the antique ring of automated defences of the Wall. But the possibility also exists it will be in a hundred years and in the Iron Sector. We don't know how they were able to bypass the Night's Watch. Lack of vigilance is an option, but the abominations might have developed a new sorcery to avoid our strongholds."

Many heads, including Lord Ryswell and Lord Karstark, nodded thoughtfully at his remark.

"Secondly, we can't leave our true allies in the River Sector alone. The Mallisters and the Blackwoods have tied their destinies to ours and we know the mad lunatic the South is calling King is just waiting for an excuse to renew the war. Greyjoy's idiotic rebellion has given us some time, but the moment they think they can get away with something..."

Wyman left the end of his sentence to the imagination of his listeners. And by their dark looks they could very well guess what the Rapist would do if presented an opportunity to tear apart without big risks some of the rebels who had humiliated him years ago.

After a few seconds where many murmured to the ears of their neighbours, it was Ser Brynden Tully's turn to speak. The Blackfish, as everyone called him, had not been seen smiling a lot since his arrival at Moat Cailin. The dismissal of his nephew - after years of labour stabilising the finances of Riverrun and coping with the thousands of crippled River veterans which had to be demobilised – had been a vicious and personal blow. The way his niece in the Vale Sector was behaving lately was not better...and one could difficultly miss the absence of Lady Catelyn Stark born Tully to this meeting.

But his loyalty to the Lord of Winterfell had never been in doubt and after a few days of deliberation, Eddard Stark had elevated him to the rank of General and put him in charge of the training of several special units throughout the Northern Sector.

"We know King's Landing have sunk huge sums to build new shipyards. Especially the secret ones." There were plenty of giggles after this affirmation. Secret orders and top-secret projects had a disastrous habit at King's Landing to be available to the highest bidder. It had not been particularly difficult to discover the military build-up at Westbrook, the new tank and spacefighter programs to quote three of the current money-sinkholes Rhaegar Targaryen had invested it. To be honest, it was becoming harder to track them all. Not because the Crownlanders had suddenly become competent, but because they were a lot of them and they could not deploy thousands of spies at once. Even the imbeciles of the Targaryen administration would notice it. "This means our qualitative and leadership advantages may not be sufficient with the numbers we agreed for Operation Harvest Sickle."

Ten metres away, Jon Umber made an ugly grimace and the visages of Lord Ashwood and Lord Woolfield were not amused either. Preparations for Harvest Sickle had already demanded an increase of eighteen percent of the Northern regular military forces and this muster combined with a complete reorganisation of the Northern forces would not be ready until 292AAC. Admitting it may not be sufficient to deal with their human enemies...

"I think you are too pessimistic, Blackfish," rumbled the Greatjon. The famous Tully knight maintained a polite expression at the Umber General. Wyman knew this one. Brynden Tully had smashed all the teeth of a Westerner commander who dared insulting him the last time he had seen it. "The Southrons are spending their gold in the same death-traps we killed at the Trident. Let them build it, I say! They can have one hundred or two hundred ships of the line, it won't change anything when our brand-new classes use them as practise targets!"

There were some in the assistance agreeing with these words, the Lord of White Harbour could see it. But they were as many staying silent or whispering in sombre expressions. The death of Lord Robert Baratheon and the failure of the Rebellion had left scars. Corrupt and decadent the Southerners may be, but there were a lot of them. There were ten times the population of the North on the other side of the Neck, this was a formidable quantitative advantage...and the North may not be able to deploy all its forces towards the twins in the end.

Then the cold tone of the Lord Paramount of the North echoed again, stopping the murmurs and bringing everyone to attention.

"A little pessimism will not kill us in these trying times." The second son of the deceased Lord Rickard Stark affirmed in his icy-commanding tone. Nothing else but implacable determination could be seen in these grey eyes and the Northern leaders remembered for the thousandth time why they had chosen to follow this young man against the tides of the dragon legions. Despite the horrific evidence of the Others' power, the atmosphere grew more bloodthirsty and determined. If there was a commander to lead them to victory against the Iron Throne and the Long Night, then the Silent Wolf was this man. "Until we have evidence to the contrary, we must assume the Others are a far graver threat to the Northern lives we are sworn to protect than the Targaryens, my swords."

The name of the Seven Sectors' ruling dynasty was pronounced with disgust so deep that it translated very well how little the Master of the North thought of these pathetic reptiles.

"The operation plan of Harvest Sickle is hereby cancelled. It will be replaced in the coming days by a new plan we will call Operation Thunderbolt. At the same time, I will name a new staff to work on a defensive war in support of the Night's Watch called Operation Citadel among other things. We can't of course bring the numbers of the black brothers to their pre-Conquest levels, but we at least can supply and arm the new recruits coming this way."

There was some laughter from Lady Mormont and Lady Flint at the idea of giving these defeated Ironborn the support Balon Greyjoy had 'asked' after his sack of Lannisport. The former looked far less severe with this happiness...but with the betrayal of her nephew, caught passing military secrets for a Hightower girl, her smiles had been a rarity of late.

Yes, the Ironborn would be armed and watched over to make sure they did their surveillance correctly – it would not do for them to continue their reavings upon the Gift populations. Unfortunately, a million soldiers would only slow down, not stop, the haemorrhage of the Night's Watch collapsing numbers.

"But we must also plan for the worst." Chuckles and the rest of the manifestations of joy disappeared faster than a prey pursued by a direbear. "Officers of different ranks will be summoned in the next weeks to Winterfell. There, we will establish a new strategy in case we find ourselves forced to fight against the Southern Sectors and the Others at the same time."

A shiver of unease emerged from nowhere. This was indeed a worst-case scenario if there ever was one. And at the beginning of the year they had believed the worst threats to come from the Eye of Woe were the wildlings' clans...

"This will be Operation Overlord."

* * *

 **Sandor Clegane, 01.07.290AAC, Lannisport System**

The wake-up was particularly brutal. A strident alarm screamed in their ears. The sound could have woken the dead of Pyke and Lannisport and every soldier in the cells put their hands on their ears, with the certainty they were going to be half-deaf in the next minutes.

Sandor swore profusely as the man next to him tried to put his left arm against his ribs. He didn't think the culprit had done it on purpose given the lack of space, but it didn't stop him from 'thanking' him with his fist in his belly.

Once they were all standing and his vision was a bit less troubled, the youngest Clegane left alive tried to remember how they had come to this place, no, this prison. He knew they had been invited to a party in one of the large taverns of the eastern sectors...there had been some music, dancers...and this was where his last memories stopped. Yet by the huge headache he had, the weakened legs and his stinking breath, he knew they had gotten all quite drunk. Their superiors weren't going to be happy, oh no...

Just as this thought arrived, the dark grey doors decorated with a roaring lion opened and three men in the red and gold of the Western army marched through. None of them looked particularly happy to see them and the groans and the protestations echoing in the cells stopped like if one had pressed a button.

"You are the disgrace of the Western Army," said Lieutenant Ayric Sarring and Sandor found his voice was scarier than the usual battle-screams he shouted during the battles of Fair Isle and Pyke. The appearance of their officer was still the same, short dark hairs and sombre eyes, but there were new dark rings under the eyes showing how tired he was. "I gave you one day of leave before we left for the manoeuvres at the Rock and the result is a destroyed tavern, riots in the streets and the City's Guard informing me they have arrested your lot."

The thin man on his right, bearing insignia the Hound had not seen before, continued the lambasting.

"Over eighty people have been wounded in the small battle you started in the _Barrel of Victory_. Six men have suffered serious wounds and are still in a military hospital as we speak." The brown-haired and bespectacled man took a turn to consult a data-slate before resuming. "Should one of them die, I can safely say there will be consequences."

The last word was uttered with a particular weight and half a score of the prisoners shivered. The Lannister justice was not known to be particularly soft when murderers were judged.

"Thanks to your dedicated attempt to recreate the Battle of Pyke in miniature at Lannisport, it goes without saying our previous orders are null and void," the eyes of the Lieutenant veteran glared ferociously at them. A couple of men in another cell on the right section tried to protest but a new order forced them to shut their mouths. "Quiet! Maybe next time you will think a few seconds before doing something stupid!"

Third man –the one who hadn't spoken until now – emitted a small laugh at that idea, one neither Sarring nor the bespectacled man commented.

"Clegane, Eartel, Jinnis, Lanviston, Vart, Zerl." The six names were pronounced slowly and calmly. Sandor tensed, his hands gripping the bars, and he knew the five other soldiers were imitating him. What had the regimental commanders at the top of the food chain decided? "For a reason that has probably everything to do with your brutality and the casualties you caused last night, High Command has noticed your violent behaviour."

Whispers and a few exclamations were heard in every throat. Attracting the attention of the Army captains and colonels was not funny, but survivable. But High Command...it was never a good thing.

"You six are hereby transferred to the 250th Infantry Regiment." Ayric explained to them. "In case you are not aware of the main Western deployments, the 250th is part of the division presently authorised to protect the lives of the Western civilians residing in King's Landing."

King's Landing. The Capital of the Seven Sectors. Sandor could not help but scream inside. How could he take his revenge against his brother if he was trapped in the infernal sinkhole the Crown called their chief city?

"Don't think the mission we have been given is any way easier," gritted between his teeth the Lieutenant when some chuckles and mockeries were made towards him and the five others. "The rest of the company is transferred to the 104th Regiment under the command of Colonel Gerion Lannister. By orders of the High Command, we must embark on the heavy cruiser _Laughing Lion_..." Sarring looked at his watch, "in about twenty-two hours."

The consternation generated was terribly sonorous. The familiar growl of Raff Preslan rose over the racket generated by this bad news.

"Lieutenant, are we going to Great Wyk?"

"Ah, my favourite Sergeant," And just like this, everyone present understood Raff Preslan had been demoted once again. The irony in the mouth of the elite swordsman could not be missed. "No we are not going to see the Ironborn and the garbage dump they call home. Our destination is...classified."

Again, new groans echoed in the cells. 'Classified' missions had a nasty tendency to earn pretty medals and a nice coffin...

"But before worrying about our next destination, you will learn there are consequences for your actions." The smile on Ayric's visage was evident and many warriors winced. "Each of you has been demoted one rank and docked half of your next month's pay to cover the massive damages done to the building and pay the hospital bills."

"You can always find another job after if you want the court martial you deserve, of course," said the third officer. "But I think it is best if you're leaving the Lannisport System for a while. The advertisement teams of Duff Beers are particularly murderous after half of your numbers sacked one of their stores and proceeded to do..." the gold-haired man seemed suddenly unable to find his words. What had they done while drunk? The man shrugged and finished his sentence once all attention was on him. "You did completely indecent acts in public and let's leave it at that."

Lieutenant Sarring turned around and Sandor felt somewhat disappointed to see him go. The Lieutenant was a good fighter, and maybe with him by his sides, he could have murdered his eldest brother...

"Your punishment starts now, scum!" The face of the first officer was evil joy incarnate. "Before we release you in thirty minutes, it's cleaning time and I'm afraid you stink too much. So we are going to give you a long, nice, icy shower..."

* * *

" _When did the Second Long Night truly begin? This is a question which has always fascinated maesters and students of history alike...and one likely to remain without answer. To our best knowledge, there are no witnesses able or willing to talk..._ " Words attributed to Samwell Tarly, 320AAC.

 **Second Night's Sword Sy'ar, 04.07.290AAC, Is'al'tyar System**

The space around Is'al'tyar was shattering under the cold and fire of millions of weapons. The terrible gun-spires of the Yth'yr'tel were unleashing their hate at the tree-ships of the Aldarai. Tree-cruisers were ramming in the elegant formation of the spire-screen. An infernal solar station was catalysing incredible amounts of energy before annihilating the heaviest spire-battleships. The blue streaks were crossing the void at impossible speeds before hitting their targets, projecting ship parts bigger than small-sized asteroids. It was the greatest battle of the Yth'yr'tel since the Great Retreat thousands of cycles ago. It was fought against their hated enemy. It should have been good.

It should never have been fought here, in orbit over the Gates of Rebirth.

Sy'ar gave a last look at the monumental space battle – one which made the death-ground created by the mortals in the System they called Pyke small and unimportant – before turning to address her servants.

 **Teleport me on the planet. Now**.

The flash and the sickness seized her before releasing her. She was on the holy ground of Is'al'tyar, where the voice of the Creator was heard anew. But there was no moment to rejoice. Tendrils of disgusting living flora surged at her, trying to destroy her. Almost by reflex, the Second Night's Sword fired her main weapon, the sheer power pulverising the liana of the Aldarai.

Not that she stopped firing. There were more tendrils coming from the ground, from the air and from what should have been a cold plain and instead was now a forest. The treacherous and cowardly vermin had really seeded the planet with their trees.

It wouldn't save them of course. Behind her more flashes announced the teleportation of her court and her servants, supported by the heavy spire-disintegrators.

 **Take prisoners**. Sy'ar communicated to the thousands of Yth'yr'tel bound to her until frost extinguished the hate life-parasites of the galaxy. **I want to know why they chose to reveal their survival here**.

But the absence of the Creator instructions was already giving her hundreds of awful outcomes. She was one of the Nine. Their Creator should have given His commands the moment she translated into the System. Without the Creator...by the damned breath of the Stars, it should not happen like this! They had been promised their revenge against their enemies of the First War fought thousands of cycles ago. To be attacked in the heart of their new dominion, a cycle before they began their great purge of the living vermin...

 **Breach their lines. To the Gates of Rebirth**!

The neat lines of the Yth'yr'tel charged, preceded by tens of thousands deflagrations and the disposable corpses of the first skirmishes she had been able to bring back from her first grand mission. The trees-whips and tree-worms of the Aldarai answered, but the instant they revealed themselves to the eyes of her servants, the spire-disintegrators were covering them in blue flames.

But the treacherous masters of the living vegetation were invisible. Here and there, a few of her best warriors were shredding bastions of green abominations, only to reveal Aldarai burning corpses. The cowardly enemy had apparently learned its lessons well, there was no way they would be able to raise and see their last memories.

The war redoubled in intensity. Sy'ar had imagined a rapid breakthrough in direction of the Gates of the Birth, but the Aldarai in charge had clearly anticipated her strategy and those of her Yth'yr'tel rivals. The higher ground was literally covered in plant-mines and each step was getting more fortified.

Her forces had no choice but to level the entire area, leaving deeps scars in the ice ground that would take hundreds of cycles to be filled. The spire-blasters were pressed into action and illuminated the battlefield under the burning skies.

 **Break them**! Her mind-voice was too agitated not to reveal her fears, but in this burning hour she had to urge her court and the forces bound to her. **Break them and take revenge for our Night's Ancestors**!

A wing of Dread Wyverns descended from the skies, their roar sending sonic blasts long before they were in contact with the loathed enemy. There were only three wings concentrated – in the urgency Sy'al had translated for Is'al'tyar there had been no time to gather more – but the effect they had on the tree-loving race was devastated. The icy breath tore apart the green liana, tendrils, trees, erasing the forest over the entire frontline, restoring to its beautiful white appearance.

A loud clamour of victory mounted from the Yth'yr'tel hosts. The assaults were multiplied, more teleportation and spire-support arriving after each flash-signal. The Aldarai, unable to hide anymore, sacrificed their fragile living bodies in columns of flames, trying to take as many Yth'yr'tel as they could in their grave-pyres.

The forest was at last dying and the Gates of Rebirth could be seen. Except Sy'al could feel nothing. The presence of the Creator was muted. And the reason of this silence was clear when she watched the ice pillars of the Gates. Three times the height of a great wyvern, the Gates of Rebirth had been covered in a sort of green cloud of magic, tendrils of the Aldarai vegetation surrounding every part of the edifice. The Gate the Nine had taken hundreds of cycles to construct and sanctify was closed.

 **NO**!

Activating her psy-blades on her wrists, Sy'ar rushed to the Gates, slaughtering the last Aldarai resistance. But the closest she came to the Gates, the more difficult her advance was. The living's magic was rebelling against her race, and burning it with her aura was getting more difficult.

An Aldarai was waiting before the magnificent base of the Gates. Small like the rest of his perfidious race, it was wearing the colours the mortal vermin called 'autumn'. Wood tendrils were surrounding it, while over his head a massive fire disk was levitating. A last defiance, then. She wouldn't be able to turn the defiler into a wight.

"You arrive too late, Child of the Frost. The Gates of Damnation are closed and the Relics of the Void have been seized."

 **Our power can no longer be stopped by such crude methods, Prey**. Sy'ar replied, feigning amusement while she only felt rage. **Tell me, how much of your last warriors did this invasion cost you? You are fading from your forests**.

"Our power may be diminished...but we stand strong against your pet monsters."

The small Aldarai raised his hands, green sparks surrounding its hands.

"The Great Other will not name a new Night's Queen." The joy in her enemy's voice was like a meditation trance. "Your armies of death will not be united in a single army."

 **We don't need unity to destroy your race and your allies! Alone or together, Preys are preys**!

"My life for the Great Tree."

The explosion of hated light and fire followed was powerful and had Sy'ar been a lesser warrior, this would have been certainly her doom. But she was one of the Nine. She activated her shield and emerged from the grave-pyre without a single wound.

But her rage and her hate were not spent. The Gates of Rebirth were closed, and deploying her senses against the abominable magic of the Aldarai, she knew it would take hundreds of cycles to open them. Unless they could find where the vermin had escaped with the Holy Relics, the voice of the Creator wouldn't be heard for long cycles.

As she tried to make new plans, two of her court-warriors dragged the former Guardian of the Gates in front of her. His protections were pierced, but there was no life-ending wound on him. And Al'Sya wondered why she didn't trust the males.

 **Vi'lial Sy'al, forgive me. My court fought with every spark of the Creator's life in our bodies**.

For outcasts, she would have activated her psy-blades. But this defeat was far too grave to deserve such an easy life-end.

 **And yet here you stand. Failure**.

A mind-command later, the lamentable Guardian was cut into a thousand different parts by the wights under her control. As loud screams of life-end rose over the battle-scene, Sy'al considered the next orders that would have to command.

Summon First Night's Sword Al'Sya here. Send messengers to the rest of the Nine. Find the Relics and above all the Keys of the Creator. Find the last worlds where the Aldarai vermin was hidden. But first, there was something more pressing to command...

 **Release the Ice Dragons. Let them smell the burning Aldarai. Let them smell their preys**.

And from the dark peaks to the new craters spread all over Is'al'tyar, tens of thousands spire-disintegrators and psy-blades were raised in common loathing. The enemy was going to pay for this defilement.

* * *

 **High Greenseer Brynden Rivers, 05.07.290AAC, New Aldaralia System**

Decades ago, the gigantic tree-hall in front of him had been full of life and emotions. The heart of the greatest weirwood tree of New Aldaralia was one of the most sacred places in the known universe for the Aldarai and countless celebrations had taken place there.

But this had been decades ago and today the free space between the fortress-sized roots was cold and silent.

The Aldarai race – though the humans knew it under the name Children of the Forest – was on the edge of extinction and Brynden did not hold much hope it could be avoided anymore.

If he could have moved, the Great Bastard of Aegon IV 'the Unworthy' would have adventured deep below his current seat, where the union between the weirwood and the core of the planet was the most powerful, trying to wake the last sentinels of the woods and convince some of the sleeping elders it was time to rise against the oncoming threat.

But his current position was as much the seat of his power as it was his prison. Brynden was the senior Greenseer remaining –one of three and the sole human – and it gave him a power few beings in this reality could imagine. Clouding the paths of the future and stopping the Great Enemy from preventing his sneak attack on the Gates of Damnation was just one example among many, many exploits he had accomplished in the last decades.

But if he had no equal in the Art of magic, he was awfully weak physically. Magic preserved, but everything had limits and at one hundred and fifteen years name days, his youth was all but a forgotten memory.

Like the Children, he was dying. The parallel could have almost been amusing if it had not such dire consequences.

With his tired eyes, he contemplated an old sword scabbard ten metres away, posed against one of the great roots and almost invisible if one didn't know where to search. It had been a long dilemma whether to keep it or to send it back to King's Landing when he had left the Night's Watch. In the end, he had chosen the former. Truth to tell, his own experiences as Hand of the King had showed him how low House Targaryen could fall...it was better not to give them back such a potent symbol of the Conquest. Although 'low' was a relative term when one considered the farce the current King and his father had made of the Seven Sectors. No, Dark Sister would stay here for the moment. When New Aldaralia came under assault, he would send the Valyrian Sword away but not before.

Low footsteps echoed in the large tunnel allowing visitors to gain access to the heart of the weirwood tree.

The Children sometimes took hours to arrive in front of his crippled body, as they watched with amazement the roots and the ancient runes proving they had once ruled this part of the galaxy. The newcomer was not an Aldarai however, and his progression was measured in minutes. The Greenseer millions had nicknamed 'Bloodraven' watched his agent with his old eyes. By the leaves and the trees, he had seen this man tens of thousand times. But this would be their first meeting face to face.

The appearance of his visitor was somewhat unimpressive. A Westerosi would have told him this was likely a wildling of average height and a slender body. He had broad shoulders, a shrewd face but overall nothing really out of the norm. His long brown hair and his brown eyes were somewhat enticing. But his clothes were not of wildling conception. A black battle-armour equipped him, one probably forged before Brynden himself had been sired. And his long black cloak was dark from black wool and red of Asshai silk, identifying him as a deserter of the Night's Watch.

"The hour is late. Has your curiosity been satisfied?"

"It has." The voice was steel itself. It was strong and bred for command. Brynden would have dearly wanted to follow such a Lord Commander but alas small events proved sometimes to be the hardest things to prevent. And the ranks of the black brothers had never been exactly renowned for their sense of priorities these last three centuries. "The Children have showed me the Relics of the Void before they placed them in stasis. Such power..." the Free Folk chieftain slightly shivered. Good. Any man who was fearful of these damned artefacts had some sense in him. "Unlike the relic-weapons we extracted in the Frost Nebula, these abominable creations are the real deal. The horn I proclaimed to be the Horn of Joramun is pathetic compared to the real thing." A new shiver came from head to toe before continuing. "Sometimes my head tells me we should use the weapons against the White Walkers, but my heart brings me back to reason. These artefacts are corruption and death in one shape...we can't use them."

"Wise choice," commented Brynden. It was a pleasure to see he had well-chosen his agent. Presented with the same choice, the Lords of the Seven Sectors would surely succumb to the power lust and try to use the Relics of the Void in their futile and imbecilic quarrels.

They would die rapidly of course. The Horn of Winter was instant death for those who tried to sound it and of thousands men, only one man had ever survived the attempt. Unfortunately, the Builder had never revealed how he had achieved this miraculous deed.

The remaining seven artefacts they had stolen from the new homeworld of the White Walkers were not less dangerous. The Night's Queen Crown, the Ring of Domination, the Sword of Frost, the Mirror-Orb of Cursed Knowledge, the Armour of Damnation, the Grave of Unlife and last but not least, the Keys of the Void.

As for the ninth 'relic'...it could not be stolen and besides, without a Night's Queen the Others would not dare unleash its full power.

"The Relics of the Void are not unique weapons combining magical and technological weapons as we understand it." A pity they weren't. In that case, they would have been completely obsolete by now. "They are imbued with the strength of the Great Other." The High Greenseer had only seen an echo of this monstrous entity by the intermediary of the Aldarai during the last attack and seeing this abomination once in a life was one too many.

"Why not try to destroy them?"

A dolorous chuckle mounted from his old throat.

"Don't you think my predecessors didn't try during the Long Night? All the artefacts save the ninth were captured at least once and all the races did their best to destroy these creations. The Great Greenseers, being far more wise and powerful than me, invented new devastating spells, dared stratagems they would never have thinking about before. The Relics were plunged in the hearts of the stars, broken, pulverised, re-forged and cursed. Nothing worked." His voice vacillated and became a whisper. "Nothing. Every time one of these awful artefacts was believed destroyed for good, a White Walker reappeared holding it days later. The Relics belong to the Great Other and will continue to torment the living long after our mutual deaths. "

"And so you are separating the Relics and sending them away in the void." The visage of Mance Rayder could not be described as satisfied but the High Greenseer was not exactly surprised. If he had found a better solution, he would have used it in a heartbeat.

"Yes. The ships used are completely stealthy and the Sunset Void on the other side of the Breach-in-the Stars is vast. The Others will take decades to find them. Enough time, I think, for the forces of humanity to repulse the tides of death."

The former Master of Whisperers did not lie to his agent. If the Others won the conflict, all his efforts would just have delayed the triumph of the abominations.

"I have seen the White Walkers," said sombrely the deserter of the Night's Watch. "Victory is not going to be easy."

This was a large understatement. The Free Folk of this galaxy, whether they would be united or not under Mance's banner, would not stand a chance against the firepower the Great Enemy was going to muster. But at least now they had a chance of survival. Not a good one, but a chance.

"The key targets are the nine Night's Swords," explained the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. "Since the Gates of Damnation are closed, these Others are the bearers of the Great Other's Will. Kill them, and the Long Night will collapse like a citadel without foundations."

"The equivalent of the Westerosi Lords and Ladies?" Unlike the majority of the Free Folk, Mance did not use lightly the word 'kneeler'.

"More like Kings and Queens in their own right," corrected Bloodraven. "They command legions of White Walkers, wights beyond counting and their Master has given them enough power to fight a greenseer on equal ground."

A young greenseer at the apex of his or her powers, it went without saying. A description Brynden Rivers could not be more far-off.

By all rights, it should be his apprentice who should have to deal with this problem. But Euron Greyjoy had revealed itself absolutely untrustworthy – to the point he had been forced to use him as bait for his own plans - and the possible alternatives were few and far off. The half-brother of King Daeron II did not remember who had once told him one human in a thousand could be a Green Priest but it was devastatingly accurate.

On the other hand, a greenseer wasn't an ordinary Priest of the Old Gods. Any prospective candidate needed to be incredibly powerful and have in him - or her - the power to master the different facets of the Art like warging, elemental control and dreaming the paths of the future. One might say the Green Priests whose Order Lord Eddard Stark was rebuilding in secret were specialised magicians and the greenseers were the elite, studying every discipline of magic and surpassing the masters of each. But these Chosen were rare. Maybe one human in a hundred million had the necessary requirements and this magical potential was only the basic foundation, as his treacherous apprentice had proven.

"This sounds incredibly like the beginning of a tragic tale," declared the former black brother, barring his teeth in a parody of smile. "I better start gathering the clans of the Free Folk, no?"

"And quickly," advised the white-haired old man. "The darkness of the abominations is growing in power...the Long Night has begun."


	11. Omens of War

**The Dying Peace Arc**

 **Chapter 1**

 **Omens of War**

 **01.01.300AAC, Ti'Yan System**

The name of the system was Ti'Yan. In a Yi-Tish dialect that been forgotten thousands of years ago, it meant 'the Oracle's Residence'.

At first view, the system was anything but remarkable. The asteroid belt and the diverse moons around the gas giants had long been stripped of their valuable resources. Ti'Yan was an old system, only ten jumps away from the capital-system of Yin. The Yi-Tish civilisation had long plundered everything they could and moved on towards better prizes. None of the planets and moons orbiting around Ti'Yan's star were the sort humanity could modify for their own use. There were three gas giants in the system, either surrounded by ice bodies or volcanic hellholes. No king or emperor was foolish enough to order a colonisation of those.

Ultimately, Ti'Yan would have been unremarkable if it had not a gigantic pyramidal-shaped space station orbiting one of the frozen moons of the first gas giant.

The spatial construction was huge. No, in fact this word was underestimating its size. The pyramid-shaped object was twice the size of the biggest spatial project ever built under a God-Emperor save the Five Forts.

The runic scripts and the decorations were of unknown origin. Certain travellers had made a rapprochement between this marvel and the ancient pyramids of the Ghiscari civilisation. There were still minor points to contradict this theory: by conservative estimations, the gigantic base was older than the ancient Ghiscari by at least a millennium and they had never managed to build something of this size or established colonies in this galactic sector.

Other theories had been similarly rejected. The origin of the space station was a mystery. As was its age, because methods of dating gave answers between six and fifteen thousand years old.

The more a man asked about this wonder, the more questions were raised. Because if the structure was full of mysteries itself, it was nothing compared to the entity living at the heart of it.

The Yi-Tish had called it the Oracle in their flowery language. It was not a man or a woman, though it could take a human appearance. Some of those who had looked at it had described it as a living statue. Poetic philosophers told their disciples it was a mystery of the universe, the perfect mix of flesh and celestial energy. The Oracle had taken many forms and it was likely that if it had a species it belonged to, they were no longer around.

Maybe it was the last representative of a glorious and powerful race having once dominated the galaxy. There were other explanations, of course, like the one which presented it as the first, sole and last inheritor of this citadel.

These enigmas aside, the Oracle held a terrible power. It had the answers to every question posed.

But there was a problem.

Any human presenting himself in front of the Oracle had the right to pose a single question. More, the entity simply refused to answer. And it was not a question per visit. It was a query for the entirety of the demander's life.

Now, this may still be considered a good bargain...but it was the Oracle who was sending the convocations by a strange mental command. Some visitors were summoned as soon as they set a foot on the space station. For others, the wait could take decades. There were still examples of old crones and agonising old men be called when they had waited since they were young children. There was no logic to it and the Oracle did not care about social ranks. According to the legend, a Prince of the Scarlet Dynasty had been forced to endure four decades of mockeries aboard before being granted the opportunity of asking his question.

The visitors who were here in a hurry scoffed in disbelief and left the system right after learning these non-negotiable conditions. Especially since the answers had a good choice to kill them. No one knew what the persons invited in the Oracle Chamber demanded, but there were frequent instances of them cutting their own throats or committing various suicidal acts once they were released. The Oracle was said to know Past, Present and Future. Such knowledge was not for the faint-hearted.

Humans being well...humans, it wasn't enough to stop a large majority from staying and waiting for their turn. The majority would moan and groan every day that things would go faster if there was a queue to join but the Oracle had never seen fit to change its methods in millennia. As a result, a thriving megalopolis had spread in the entrails of the space station. The ostensible goal was for the petitioners to stay alive until the Oracle deigned summoning them. The less respectable objectives were to squeeze a maximum of money from these unconventional dreamers. Clothes, food, little balls with snow and the emblem of the Oracle inside them, miniature reproduction of the pyramidal structure...force was to admit the Yi-Tish had transformed one of the great marvels of spatial engineering into a tourist trap.

Life continued. Centuries after centuries, the Oracle saw empires rise and fall, armies go to war, disasters and tragedies succeed to each other. Uncountable joys and triumphs could be recorded or not, the spatial station endured, impervious to the assaults of time and the small living things crawling inside its corridors.

For the denizens of Ti'Yan, this was a simple system and there were no exceptions to this. The stellar system was ignored anyway in every war...the Oracle could not be captured and an ugly end had befallen all those who had tried to prove the contrary.

Elders recounted the same thing to their children and grandchildren: in this system, the 'voice' of the Oracle was the only law which mattered.

They were completely wrong.

One man could present himself without invitation before the Oracle and ask his question.

And today this man had come.

Under the stunned eyes of the personnel maintaining the station monitoring systems, a great battleship had emerged from the sole jump point of the system, escorted by an armada of lesser cruisers and other warships.

Once given the proper codes, about four hundred shuttles demanded the permission to be received in the great docking bays. Minutes later, an impressive army of courtesans, officers wearing their parade armours, high nobles and eunuchs of the Yin court emerged to form two neat lines, restricting the access to the last golden shuttle to dock.

The smartest women and men instantly went to a prostrating position, knowing there was a single authority which could commandeer so many influential people.

In a deluge of traditional music, a golden ramp was put in place and Bu Gai, seventeenth azure God-Emperor of Yi-Ti, Celestial Protector of the Dawn, Master of a Million Legions and One, Great Prince of Yin and Holy Champion of the Light, marched out.

The consternation was complete among the Ti'Yan population. There had been no warnings that their divine ruler would come visiting the Oracle, no messengers, nothing.

Realising their error, thousands of men, women and children instantly prostrated themselves on the ground, preceded by a second or two by the courtesans, princes and imperial dignitaries. God-Emperor Bu Gai, resplendent in his azure and gold traditional Yi-Tish robes, continued his march, the Celestial Sceptre of Jade in his dominant hand.

In a matter of minutes, the supreme sovereign of the greatest human Empire in this galaxy found itself in front of the nine thousand nine hundred and nineteen marches descending to the Oracle chambers. The first step in the descent was taken without hesitation, the aged visage of the God-Emperor revealing nothing of the dangers waiting for him at the end of his travel.

There was no mental command from the Oracle to stop him and none would come in this long progression. By an ancient pact so old its very existence was debated by generations of erudite, the God-Emperor title was sufficient to be admitted at once.

After hours of descent where Bu Gai was forced to rest, eat and drink more than once, the great gates finally became visible. The solid doors were forty metres high and yet when they opened not a whisper could be heard.

Inside the room was in the penumbra but a brilliant circle could be seen. Bu Gai marched on top of it and spoke.

"Oracle, I am-"

"The God-Emperor..." The voice which had just interrupted him seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Its tone varied word after word. It was like a thousand people were hidden in the background and were taking turn after turn to speak. "I know."

"The seers of the Empire are receiving terrifying visions," said Bu Gai. His speech was jerky and poorly pronounced. The divine ruler of Yi-Ti was not used to plead his cause. "Beasts and demons which were sleeping for millennia are waking up. Loyal generals and princes are revolting with madness in their minds. I want to know..."

After a moment to steel his courage, the last azure God-Emperor pronounced the fatal sentence.

"I want to know the destiny of my Empire."

Before him a female figure bathed in light was shaped. The Master of A Million Legions and One sobbed quietly as the Oracle took the appearance of his beloved concubine Lin, dead four years ago in a conspiracy which had forced him to kill a third of his harem.

"Then watch, mortal..." Told him the Oracle in the voice of the woman he had loved.

And Bu Gai watched as millions of fragmented images submerged him. He saw his Empire, tearing itself apart in petty feuds and futile power struggles. He saw the millenary-old foundations of the thousand systems under his rule burning, priceless knowledge burning, armies annihilated and worlds destroyed.

This wasn't the worst part, not at all.

All over the stars, the kingdoms, citadels and empires of mankind were killing each other. A period of devastation which made the previous wars of this era insignificant such was the violence and the bloodshed caused. The God-Emperor saw gigantic fortresses fall, and soldiers of every armour colour possible die on millions of battlefields.

Billions, perhaps trillions had died.

And then the demons came.

From the Death Nebula, the devil-spectres attacked, crushing the isolated Five Forts before spreading into the Yi-Tish systems and devouring the souls of his subjects. The few legions remaining, weak and crippled by the multiple civil wars, were in no state to resist them.

From the great wound in reality the foreigners named the Doom, flaming monsters and flame entities were unleashed. Their appearance was fair and bright at first, and the celestial ruler could see millions worshipping them in adulation and ignorance. With each burning, the flames grew in strength until finally the monsters created an inferno to burn the galaxy. The flames of death consumed their priests and ravaged a thousand worlds in mere seconds.

The Breach-in-the-Stars, the other unnatural phenomenon at the edge of this galaxy, was assaulted by cold and terrible beings. Here the Oracle showed a far more united resistance but the inhuman enemies buried the human defenders with billions of their own dead. The stars grew cold and the planets froze. Order collapsed and one of the monsters let the greatest of the ice-cold entities rampage through tens of thousands systems.

There was also a fourth demonic threat, terrible and coming from the very depths of the Void. Those were the ancient heralds of madness and chaos, taking the forms of tentacles, black energy, starship-sized maws and eternal hunger. Unlike the other demons they were of this reality and yet not, having waited for their gruesome feasting for untold time.

Here and there, heroes died. There were some divine help coming but they did not present a united front and fell one by one.

Humanity died and the demons fought each other for the great tithes of flesh, bones and souls.

Then there was only darkness. The galaxy was a ruin devoid of life, full of stars extinguished and exploded asters.

It was the end.

"Everything is said, God-Emperor. Now carry the weight of fate and go!"

The man faced the ageless eyes of the Oracle and seemed to stand straighter before turning around and leaving the Oracle to its long vigil.

The long ascent back to his starship was a very long journey for Bu Gai but those who saw the pace of the God-Emperor believed him filled with a new determination.

They were right.

Three days after his return at Yin, three princes, nineteen generals and sixteen sorcerers would lose their head, all convicted of high treason.

Fifty-four days later, the greatest armada Yi-Ti had ever assembled in the last three centuries departed Yin. Over three hundred legions, six thousand warships and a chain of supply ships and transports it created an artificial eclipse when they passed between the capital and the sun. At their head was the God-Emperor himself and his family. Millions of engines burned and the fleet began its long travel to the Five Forts. For the troublemakers, loyalists and demons, the Azure forces had sent their message.

The Golden Empire of Yi-Ti was not going to die without a fight.

* * *

 **King Mance Rayder, 03.04.300AAC, Black Cairn System**

Like many men before him, Mance had imagined the day he would be acclaimed King-Beyond-the-Wall would be a day of celebrations and joy, where millions of his people feasted and drank three times their weight in ale.

The meeting who had just ended with the clan leaders had not felt like this at all.

If he wanted to be truthful, it had had all the characteristics of a funeral.

The Free Folk had not cried, but their gloomy faces, the murmurs of condolences, the colours of mourning and the images of destruction shown by the antique holo-projectors of the _Red Cloak_ 's bridge were an adequate substitute.

They had had the confirmation the Snowhunter ships had been wiped out to the last, and though this clan had been a relatively small one, it was still one Ark, one Barge, ten large transports, dozens of scout cruisers and frigates, and hundreds of starfighters the Free Folk had lost. Between four and six million men, women and children, all dead...and sadly he had no doubt a good portion would not stay dead for long. Oh no, they would be resurrected as wights, these parodies of human life and hurled against their former friends with inhuman blue lights in their eyes.

Tender hands went to caress his shoulders, his neck and his back. Mance smiled but didn't turn. There were only two women left on the bridge of the Ark he used as his flag bridge and one would never touch him in this fashion.

"You convinced them," said his wife.

"I had hoped the death of an entire clan wouldn't be necessary for them to understand the threat we are facing." The sadness in his voice was not feigned. The Free Folk were his people and he had not begun to unite the clans and tribes of these stellar immensities to sacrifice them in cold-blooded stratagems.

"We are a stubborn people, Mance," Dalla was as beautiful as she ever was with her blonde hairs. Her belly was big now; her pregnancy had entered its sixth month and Mance gently joined his hands with her over the new life they had created in their passion. For their first child, he hoped it would be a little princess but time would tell. He had not been there for the latest medical exams of his wife as he intended the news to be a complete surprise. "The clans believe what they see and would never have taken you on your word alone. The White Walkers were just an old legend..."

'Were' was the key word here. Mance had been perhaps the first man after the greenseers to be informed of their resurgence but in the last decade countless clans had known of the abominations' return the hard way.

"Well I can't deny you have a point," he said with a large smile and kissing her softly on the lips. "The Free Folk are stubborn..."

For a moment they stayed there on their seats, kissing and hugging each other while looking at the planets and the stars. The great gas giants of the Black Cairn System were in view and the red giant star they were orbiting around was a red inferno. These were the asters the Free Folk ships were watching for the present and a recall how small they are all were when confronted to the mysteries of the stars.

Unfortunately this moment of relaxation and tenderness was rudely interrupted when Dalla's eldest sister marched imperiously onto the bridge with a sort of false reprobation on her face. Wearing the white battle-armour she had managed to build herself, Val was the very expression of death and beauty. Mance had never tried to court her. Not because she was his wife's sister or the next best thing a King-Beyond-the-Wall had of a chief of staff. He just was perfectly happy with Dalla and didn't fancy being 'stolen'.

"You organise council of wars on your bridge, Mance. Councils of love are for your quarters." When Val visage was like this, the men of Westeros would have accepted her as Queen the moment they saw her. "Or your warriors will believe you want Tormund to join the fun."

Dalla growled at her sister.

"You didn't come to warn me Giantsbane was on his way, don't you Val?"

He knew the blonde-haired formidable fighter didn't. For all her faults, Val wouldn't intervene in his love life unless he did something monumentally stupid.

"No, I don't." The two exchanged a conniving grin before turning serious again. "The ships we sent to Shadowbelt and Winterford have come back. They have seen no sign of White Walkers."

If they had been against the Night's Watch, he would have trusted the reports. Free Folk scout cruisers and frigates might be obsolete by the Essossi and Westerosi standards, but their commanders were the best. They had to be, for their engines, weapons and practically everything aboard were older than his great-great-great ancestors.

Alas, their skills and minds were nothing compared to the stealth capacities of the White Walkers ships.

"Let's not be too quick selling the skin of the direbear, Val." Sometimes his people were too easily baited in committing their forces when patience would have earned them a victory. "The Snowhunters thought they were safe too and look what it got them."

The white-armoured spearwife grimaced but didn't protest too much. She had seen the images brought by the lone raider which had escaped the slaughter.

"We have more scouts than them."

"And I'm sure the abominations have more than a single ship out there to hunt us." The former brother of the Night's Watch told her, making a gesture in direction of the stars. "Imagine what a pack of them could do against our Arks..."

By his wife's sister paling expression, she understood very well how bad the battle would be. The Arks may be far bigger than a conventional ship of the line, human or Other, but they were not true warships. The big hulks were carriers for the starfighters, possessed huge number of shuttles and great quarters for a civilian population. Mance was deadly sure one of the few remaining Night's Watch warships of this tonnage could have destroyed the Snowhunters. They would have suffered damage, but his former brothers would have won.

The Others were definitely far more powerful and the devastation unleashed by a single ship had convinced the clan leaders there was no way they could win against this.

Before the destruction of the Snowhunters, there had been talks of taking the war to the White Walkers. After, the commanders had agreed fleeing was just common sense.

"Were there new messages from the Children or the three-eyed crow?"

"Not a single one," told her darkly the new King-Beyond-the-Wall. The messages had been getting rarer since his last meeting face-to-face with the human figure trapped on his weirwood throne. When at the beginning of the decade news had been transmitted by magic or mortal means every four or five standard days, the rhythm had gotten slower. Eight years ago, it had become one message per ten days, a delay explained by another set of offensives launched by the monsters. Five years ago, he would have been lucky to have a message per month. Each little titbit of information was frightening and had caused him plenty of sleepless nights. The Children may have renewed their millenary-old war with the Old Enemy by a decisive victory, but it had been the last one. Now the tree-dwellers were crumbling against the onslaught. The last message had been eleven standard months ago and the Children's core systems were besieged by a terrifying fleet the likes had never been seen in the last thousand years.

"Not a single one and I fear there will be no more." He repeated. The recent apparition of the Enemy's warships in their systems was certainly not a coincidence. If this was not a sign the White Walkers believed they had dealt their great enemies a fatal blow, Mance didn't know what it was. "We will have to win our survival by our own efforts."

Val's nod was determined, but her very body language betrayed how she wanted him to be wrong. She wasn't the only one. But the survival of his people was too important for him to dream that somehow a greenseer was going to find a spell to throw back the White Walkers into the Hell where they had spent their last eight thousand years. Life wasn't a bard tale, no matter how much he loved singing them.

"It won't be easy, but the time has come to gather all the clans and tribes of the Free Folk." He told his wife and her sister. Both nodded at the same time. "Unless we want the White Walkers to pursue and crush us one by one, we must begin our journey towards the Wall. Val?"

"We are thirty-one jumps away from Craster's Fort." The fierce blonde-haired woman explained as she lightened the old tactical display. "Considering we have around four hundred-plus clans to gather and the strain each jump will place on our hulls, my basic estimate is that we will need eight months to reach the Breach-in-the Stars."

With her right hand, Val lighted a succession of stars between their current position and the stellar anomaly.

"I think our best course is to use the Fist of the First Men as our great muster point then launch a two-pronged attack by Whitetree and Milkwater on the crows."

Mance had learned tactics and strategy from the last two Lord Commanders of the Night's Watch and had perfected his talents since by leading his people in uncountable skirmishes. He didn't like hearing this strategy at all.

"It is too risky," he refused. "Coordinating hundreds of ships on a galactic scale is impossible and the crows have the interior jump lines." The Black Brothers had faster and more powerful ships too. The Free Folk great advantage was in the overwhelming numbers of ships they had. The Night's Watch had had less than five hundred warships when he departed; he would have at the very least twice that number in scout cruisers.

"The wargs present at the council promised they would help." By her dubitative tone, Dalla's eldest sister had realised how weak a proposition it was.

"I don't want their help, I want them to listen to my strategy and my tactics." The grimaces he received told him how miraculous it would be for that event to happen. Wargs had never been noted to be the most stable of individuals and the average Free Folk commander was courageous but undisciplined. "No, a two-pronged attack will only be an opportunity for the crows to defeat us piecemeal. I think you have a good point mustering our forces at the Fist of the First Men. It will put us in position to strike rapidly the Wall."

Not that he had any intention to ram hundreds of ships straight in the cannons guarding Castle Black. Many Kings had tried this in ages past, and the outcome was as predictable as it was bloody. No, once they got through the Breach they would harass the defenders and force them to stand their ground. As the Wall guardians were distracted, the Thenns and a few clans would sneak by the abandoned systems and assault them in their rear. Hopefully, it would be a victory won with minimal losses and it would put him in position of force to negotiate with the Northern Lords.

"We must also send new scouts," proposed Dalla. "Our people have been away for too long from the Eye of Woe, we don't know what the crows and the rest of the kneelers are up to..."

* * *

 **Victarion Greyjoy, 01.07.300AAC, Talon System, Basilisk Sector**

By the Void God, Victarion loathed Talon One. The toad, skull and talon decorations were ugly. The smells coming from everywhere were awful – it took all he had to not vomit in the middle of the corridor. Everything was falling into disrepair and even the basic systems like the air, the water and the artificial gravity could fail at any moment. The fact said the mechanical parts used from the garbage compactors to the durasteel plates they were currently walking on had never been intended for the usage they were used did not help.

On Talon One, the goods traded and the entire environment had been pillaged somewhere else and the stealing succession was probably not over. The orbital station was the central hub of piracy and every possible illegal activity in the Basilisk Sector. Though calling 'illegal' some of the things done on Talon and the neighbouring systems was a bit of a misnomer. There were no laws in the Basilisk Sector save the one of the strongest and the always permanent threat a Triarch of Volantis was going to send a fleet to burn this hive of scum and villainy to the ground.

Victarion could honesty admit he didn't understand these pirates at all. By the kraken's maw, the lack of maintenance and proper care in the station was likely killing a score of men and women per day! If they had stopped sending sub-par technicians and slaves in the abandoned tunnels, maybe this orbital station would have been greater than the current cesspit of accidents and break-downs. But the pirate captains didn't trust each other not to steal their best engineers and crewmates, and so Talon remained in its dilapidated state.

"I hope this meeting is worth it, Adrach." He growled to his second in command, his mood getting worse and worse as he saw long traces of red and black painting the ground which had not been there during his previous visit.

Adrach Goodbrother – born in a lesser branch the Goodbrothers of Hammerhorn had likely forgotten a decade ago – did not even blink at the threatening tone of his Lord Captain and liege.

"Teach has not disappointed us so far, my King." His black eyes met the glare of Victarion with a certain measure of respect and prudence. "It was his information network which allowed us to attack the last two convoys successfully. We badly needed the fuel and the supply parts."

Victarion grunted in a non-committal tone. Force was to admit – only in his own mind of course – he had seriously underestimated the changes transforming a regular squadron to a pirate fleet required. Before the failed Rebellion, he always had the military infrastructure of Pyke to support his plans. Commanding warships in the Basilisk Sector with an inexistent budget, shipyards that could be generously called 'space dangers' and allies ready to stab you in the back wasn't an ideal situation.

This was why Adrach had been elevated to his position of Iron Castellan. The Goodbrother captain had little qualifications in battle tactics and war strategy, but he was excellent juggling with supplies and logistics. In the midst of these bloodthirsty 'corsairs', deserters, traitors and pirates, this was a priceless ability. They were far from the Iron Sector, and crewmen affiliated one way or another with the Basilisk pirates cared more about money, food, water, spare parts and luxury items than honour and faith.

"Assuming you get the rest of the promised shipments from Toad-face," which they wouldn't, he wasn't ready to bet a single coin on it, "will we be able to restore the _Vigil of Pyke_ back to fighting condition?"

The longship had lost a third of its armament, half of its sensors and most of its counter-missiles defences four years ago when they had been pursued by a corsair squadron from Qarth.

"I...don't know my King," Adrach was grimacing like an enemy was about to eviscerate him. "The pirates we're dealing with never had many longships spare parts to sell in the first place. There were Iron captains regularly coming in these systems during the reign of Aerys, but they never stayed long and I fear we bought most of the available supplies when we arrived here."

Victarion did not like hearing this but nodded, marching right silently to avoid a large fight between two Tyroshi-born crews. Maintaining the longships in the Basilisk Sector was a true nightmare. They weren't compatible with the common Essossi technology and with the destruction of the Iron Fleet, finding replacement hulls would take a miracle. The _Iron Retribution_ had been dismantled seven years ago, following the disastrous attack of a Braavosi convoy, and it left the _Wrath of Iron_ the sole battle-worthy longship in his fleet.

"But your fleet is still growing size, my King." Today, mused Victarion, Adrach was really keen to see only the positive news. And though he might have a point, the brother of the fallen Iron King Balon Greyjoy wasn't going to rest on these congratulations.

"My fleet expands because we're capturing Volantene, Lysene and Tyroshi ships and recruiting thousands of pirates to crew them." He had hoped not to be forced to this extremity, or at least not in these numbers. Victarion had led himself many raids against the greenlander spaceships travelling through the Narrow Void, the Stepstones sub-Sector, the Dornish Rift and the Summer Void. Surely ancient veterans would learn of his exploits and escape the vigilance of the dragon's dogs. They would come and he would forge a new Iron armada.

It had not happened. Merely hundreds of Ironborn had rallied his banner instead of the expected tens of thousands and nine out of ten had already been fleeing when the Fall of Pyke was proclaimed to the rest of the world. There was no Ironborn flow of reinforcements to reinforce him. He ignored the feelings of betrayal like he ignored the pain of his old wounds. Raging against the cowardice of his former subordinates would not change things. But once he sat again on the throne...

The group formed by his ten reavers, Adrach and himself entered the vast hall they were supposed to meet their 'ally'. At the moment of its building, the place had certainly been the dining room of a Volantis Admiral - the flag officers of the First Daughter were the only ones to have the place to waste on this and they did it by cramming together their slaves in living quarters so small that simply sleeping in them was a torture by itself. How and when the hall had been integrated to Talon One, Victarion didn't know and he didn't really care.

What he could see anyway told him the location was certainly not used for activities the first owners would never have approved though you never knew with the depraved Essossi nobles. The space available to the pirates frequenting the orbital station had become divided between a strip-club, a casino, a mercenary recruiting point, a black market business ground, a bar serving only prohibited alcoholic beverages, several drug sellers and a slave market. Every hour there was at least one murder, the orgies and crimes against decency were uncountable and human lives were sold by the hundreds.

Had he been paid enough money, Victarion would have wiped out the place in a firestorm but he needed the contacts these fellow outlaws had. They were the only chance – a really tenuous and improbable one to be sure – he had of liberating Pyke and the Ironborn people. And it was why he marched towards the bar, followed by Adrach and the rest of his detachment. The man they had arrived to meet was here.

"Admiral Teach," Victarion did not salute, but his previous talks with the man had made him realise the man was arrogant and vain to the point the Targaryens were minor nutcases in comparison.

"Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy," replied his interlocutor and the reaver who had once led the Iron Victory tightened his fists, thinking of the great joy he would have to beat this loathsome head into a red pulp. "Please be seated."

Victarion obeyed...after a few seconds, showing Teach he was not one of the lackeys he could order at his will. And for a good two minutes the two stared at each other. 'Ed Teach' – or whatever name he chose to use this month – did not look like a pirate. He wore a pristine white uniform with the elegant white gloves of the nobility and the golden decorations of his rank on his shoulders. His hairs were white-silver, his visage was so flawless it was a given genetic enhancements had played a role to make him attractive like this and his eyes were a colour somewhere between the red and the violet.

In short, this arrogant prick had the very appearance of a Volantene Admiral...which had something to do with the fact 'Admiral Teach' had once been called 'Admiral Iovinos Helloquo of the Volantene Navy' and had been retired forcefully in circumstances no one had ever been able to discover. Afterwards, he had embraced the life of pirate though his actions had made many whispering he had kept ties with his Tiger allies at home.

"I will admit I had my doubts your tiny flotilla could accomplish the ambush of the convoy." As always, it was irritating to hear this smug bastard speak. Volantis had really to be an unbearable den of arrogance with all these aristocrats of the Old Blood around. "But you seem to have succeeded with light losses. It is admirable for a man of your reputation."

Teach sipped in the nice cup in front of him. Victarion had no wish to imitate the Volantene. He had consumed enough pain-killers and drugs after the war to shorten his life by a decade or two, he had no death wish to drink the filth the pirate was addicted to and worsen his health.

"I have another mission for you."

"My men and I are not under your command, Admiral Teach," told Victarion. A few feet away, a corsair of Braavosi origin was found cheating in a card game and murdered by the other players on the spot.

"What a disappointment," the silver-haired pirate affirmed before drinking the rest of the blue substance. The hateful glance told the Ironborn leader that had he been really a subordinate, Teach would not have hesitated to throw him out of Talon One by the nearest airlock. "But you need my help."

It would have been good if it wasn't true...and if the Volantene-born outlaw had not been showing of his smug smiles.

"My ships are the most successful fleet operating in the Summer Void," reminded him Victarion.

This was the truth after all...Teach warships operated most of the time in the Jade Void and extorted astronomical sums from the slavers of Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen.

"Your ships are a mere nuisance to any real navy," corrected the man who had definitely the traits and the arrogance of the ancient Valyrians. "You have...two longships, one Lysene super-cruiser, three Tyroshi Q-Ships, two Myrish protected cruisers and one Volantene strike-carrier." The next inaudible words uttered were certainly a curse destined to the ghost of the Volantene inexperienced enough to lose their ships against a bunch of under-armed reavers.

The listing did not trouble the legitimate King of the Iron Sector. In all his raids, skirmishes and punishment assaults, it was a given anyone who could count would have a good guess of his order of the battle. It did not count his auxiliaries, transports, supply ships and the like but to be honest they contributed little to his battle-firepower. Yes, Teach knew what he had under his command...and one longship and one of the Q-Ships would need a lot of reparation if they had to participate in a two-second long skirmish.

"You have no hope of retaking the Iron Sector by yourself." And all the while the pirate was widely showing his perfect white teeth. Nice to see he had a good dentist or that the genetics modifications he had been given were that good.

"Get to the point, Admiral Teach." Did the man consider him an idiot? Of course he knew he had no chance liberating his home from the greenlanders! If he had one, he would be at Pyke, killing the garrisons of the Tyrells, the Lannisters and the Targaryens. But with his current forces, all he could do was destroy some light units of the warships in orbit before the reinforcements of Casterly Rock translated in-system with murder in their eyes. He had neither the capital ships nor the land forces to fight the fleets and the armies of the Iron Throne.

"There are people who think the Targaryens and their allies should be taught a lesson." Teach pronounced each word with excruciating care. From his pocket, the pirate admiral drew a sort of badge and posed it on the table.

Victarion saw it and frowned. The object was decorated in the symbol of a three-headed black dragon.

 _Blackfyre_.

The descendants of Daemon were perhaps not as dead as King's Landing's authorities liked to pretend.

"And would these...people would be disposed to support a King unjustly deprived of his realm?"

Once more, one of these unpleasant smirks was the only answer.

"Accept the mission, and I will gladly arrange an appointment with these benefactors."

Victarion cursed under his breath. He didn't trust at all Admiral Teach and he really doubted the Blackfyres were as generous as the pirate implied. But it was not like the Ironborn survivors had a lot of choices. His forces were increasing but too slowly. He was getting older and it was his authority which cemented the fleet cohesion. When he died, his warships would disperse before the month was over. The dreams of independence would die.

Still, if Teach expected him to drink this blue stuff, he could wait eternally.

The former Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet sighed.

"What do you want me to do?"

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Void, 2.07.300AAC**

This was a battle which should have entered the legends of the Yth'yr'tel and the Aldarai alike. Alas, it was quite possible it would never happen for the possibility of survivors was looking slimmer and slimmer.

For the last three long years, the gigantic ice dragon had pursued the six tree-ships with an indefatigable ferocity.

For the last three long years, the Children crews had done their best to kill the formidable predator sent by their dreaded enemy.

The end was near. Five of the six warships were gone now and the sixth was in critical condition. The ice dragon was critically wounded: its wings had been pierced hundreds of times and on the rest of the body there were thousands of injuries where scales should have provided protection.

It was quite lucky for the living races of this galaxy the battle had been fought in the Void and hundreds of light-years away from any inhabited stellar system. Between the implacable breath of the dragon and the capital weapons of the Aldarai warships, the casualties could have easily been in the millions.

Most of the sentient beings would have abandoned the struggle. There was no point attacking relentlessly if you were unable to enjoy the victory in the end. But ice dragons were not most sentient beings and this particular specimen had ever been a prideful beast, easy to anger and refusing to abandon a challenge to its superiority.

As for the Aldarai, giving up was simply not an option. Firstly, the ice dragon was not going to accept their surrender. Secondly, they were transporting one of the eight cursed artefacts which had been stolen years ago. If the dragon triumphed, it was quite possible the Night's Swords would be able to guess its location with some of their dreaded skills.

The dragon opened its gigantic maw and breathed an inferno of blue dragonfrost. On the other side, the last weapons still operable fired in anger as fast as they could.

This was a violent and brief battle. Unlike the majority of the space battles, the distance of engagement was measured in hundreds of metres, not in kilometres. At this distance, the slaughter was incredible for the two sides could not miss. The ice dragon right side was mangled to the point its formidable regenerative capabilities were useless. One wing disappeared into exploding ice fragments. But the warship broke in half and was wracked by monumental explosions.

Had the ice dragon been able to, it would have roared in triumph. But this was over its forces. Its movements were sluggish and the power the Yth'yr'tel had infused in its bones was fleeing it.

The ice dragon was dying and its mission was going to be a failure. The kilometre-long creature stood immobile only for a few of its heartbeats before deciding on a course. Grabbing with its claws the ship section where it could feel the relic built by its masters, the ice dragon began to tow it in direction of the nearest star.

This was its last race. The faint light was somewhat familiar from the draconic instincts, meaning its masters knew its coordinates. If the dragon brought its prize here, the Yth'yr'tel would be able to salvage it.

The ice dragon accelerated, consuming its last reserves of energy. Soon it would be able to rest.

* * *

 **Lord Eddard Stark, 2.07.300AAC, Winterfell System**

Lord Cregan Stark had been many things in his life. The man had been an excellent tactician, a good judge of men, an excellent strategist and an affable patriarchal figure. His abilities to rule the pack of angry direwolves some called the Northern Sector had been impressive. His economic investments in the Winterfell System and the domains of his bannersmen had generated much prosperity and wealth which his descendents were still reaping the benefits a century and a half later.

There was however one black cloud darkening these sunny qualities: Cregan hadn't known how to ski properly and when he had the idea of creating a ski station for his House, the disposition of the ski slopes had been slightly...hazardous.

Cregan's children had probably not wanted to burden their Lord when the Old Man of the North had just celebrated his ninety name day.

But force was to admit, the ski station of the Frozen Lake, private domain of House Stark and better known in the imaginary collective by its nickname of 'Direwolf Slope', was not a station where a boy or a girl just discovering snow learned how to ski. The station held to this day the record of the greatest number of black and red slopes, no mean feat when one was aware of the difficulty proposed by certain snow resorts on the different planets of the Northern Sector. Beginners were consequently...discouraged to descend the majority of the local slopes unless they wanted to see their skis abandon them in the first minutes.

There were those who pretended Cregan had known all along the difficult ski challenge he was creating and feigned to be a senile old man when the final preparations were made. Else why would he have named the black slope right in front of the family chalets the _Magnar Streif_?

One thing was sure, the number of falls and extraordinary wipeout here was unmatched. As his daughters were currently proving this point in front of him.

"Get to the right! Slow down!"

"The left! To the left! Ahhhh!"

Fortunately Arya and Sansa were skiing slowly and as a result the collision was almost gentle. Not that he had been worried with the helmets and the protections they were wearing. But for the noble sport of ski, it was over. Sansa lost both skis and ski poles in her fall before hurtling down the black slope on her buttocks. Arya continued on a single ski for a few seconds in a straight line...then she tried to turn around and lost her remaining gliding support. After that, the descent head first on her belly was a foregone conclusion.

"I really need to find new ski instructors for you two," The Lord Paramount of the North said, trying not burst into laughter as the two girls were trying to stand up on shaky legs and the rest of their ski equipment was finishing its course independently of their owners in front of the chalet-restaurant.

"It's Sansa's fault!" grumbled his youngest daughter with a large dose of bad faith. "She skis like a direbear and she never watches where she is going..."

This tirade was brutally interrupted by her sister throwing her a snow ball in her mouth and the situation degenerated from there. Joanna, who had been first to arrive at the end of the _Magnar Streif_ , decided to join the snowball battle too. Brandon did not wait ten seconds to be involved, well-rested as he had returned to the station earlier by cableway.

"Sometimes I think I should have signed up Arya for the ice skating lessons, my love." Catelyn told him as she took his left hand in her right while Rickon half-stumbled half-ran in direction of the battle. "It probably would have improved her dexterity and her grace."

The style their youngest daughter threw snowballs could indeed be considered brutal and inelegant. But then Arya was a very close copy of Lyanna at her age. The hairs, the grey eyes, the wild behaviour were there...and the loud mouth was too.

"The skating teachers of this continent would not have thanked me." The Master of Winterfell said. Understatement of the year: several of Arya's school tutors had already complained in private these last years. All recognised she was really talented. Arya spoke fluently five languages, was two years ahead of children of her age in her academic performances, her athletic capabilities were superb and she had built her own air-bike when her personal guards had had their back turned. But she was also extremely stubborn and prone to throw legendary outbursts when she was bored or uninterested in something. "And the last thing we need is to give her ideas about playing hockey."

The Northern ruling couple exchanged a shivering and silent glance which was more telling than any roar of anger. Their dark brown-haired hellion was already involved in too many fights with her little court. Settling the accounts with hockey sticks in company of the little terrors named Lyanna Mormont, Ellyana Bolton and Eddara Tallhart sounded like the recipe of a potent disaster in the making.

In the mean time, the snowball battle was raging on the snow front of the station. The brilliant red hairs of Sansa were struck regularly by new layers of white as Arya and Joanna teamed up against her. Rickon was running around, his shoots completely inaccurate and the targets he touched were probably not the ones he had in mind – like the Winterfell guards waiting near the wooden posts where dozens of ski pairs were waiting. This left Brandon free to retaliate again Arya but though the grey-eyed Stark was not gracious, she evaded the slow and predictable shoots of her brother.

Eddard chuckled but inside was somewhat slightly dismayed at the lack of talent Brandon displayed for activities involving long-range accuracy. While Arya, Joanna, Sansa, Baela and Robb had a top accuracy when they grabbed a rifle or a pistol, this talent largely seemed to have ignored Bran.

The battle was turning rapidly in the alliance Joanna-Arya's favour when the last two skiers finished the _Magnar Streif_. The large quantity of snow on their ski jackets and trousers clearly indicated the descent had not been a tranquil affair and they were out of breath. It was not sufficient alas to discourage Baela from taking her shoes off the skis and bombing Joanna in the back with a large snowball. A good minute later, Robb finished the black slope and giving a resigned look to his parents, went to fight on Arya's side.

It was three against three, with Rickon proving the unaligned element randomly attacking both alliances. A true mini-war between the young generation of Starks and it was not long before the snow trenches were dug and an endless supply of snowball was put to good use.

Had he been fully concentrated on the snow spectacle, Eddard would have missed Rodrik Cassel marching quietly from an alley between the chalets but he had long taken the habit of being aware of everything in his surroundings. It was an essential habit if you wanted to survive a real battle, when it came down to it.

The old man who was his chief of security bowed before delivering a sentence the descendent of Cregan Stark didn't want to hear at all while he was taking a few holidays.

"My Lord, we have a situation," said the old sworn sword of Winterfell. Just after the Peace of Maidenpool, Rodrik had been proposed a knighthood by Lord Manderly but he had politely refused. The behaviour of the so-called 'knights' on the other side and the liberties they took with the tenets of the Seven had tarnished their image in the eyes of the Northerners forever.

"Rodrik, there is always a situation. But I told you that for the next six days, this would be someone else's problem." Between the massive armament programs started by the North a decade ago, the general hostility of the Great Lords in the galactic south, the rule of an entire Sector full of angry war veterans and the wildling raids rising in intensity and in numbers, there were few weeks where a significant event demanding his personal ruling wasn't required.

There were simply not enough hours in the days to accomplish every task. To complicate matters, a lot of the activities could be justly regarded as bordering on treachery against the Iron Throne and so the son of the deceased Lord Rickard was forced to forge alibi and false appointments to explain he was somewhere doing something perfectly innocent while he was meeting his ground commanders to discuss war preparations.

Eddard had not wanted the title of Lord Paramount when he had received it and since his elevation to it had seen little reason to change his mind. The duty to govern the North was an exhausting one. He wasn't able to spend half of the time he wanted with his wife and his family. This was why those days at Frozen Lake were important for him. For long hours, he could forget the problems caused by millions of arrogant and idiotic Southerners and enjoy with his sons, daughters and niece hobbies which had nothing to do with war preparations or Noble Houses quarrels.

"It is urgent, my Lord." Rodrik was far too polite to insist more than this, but the hard expression on his face and the stiffness of his body told his liege something important had happened.

"Where is the situation which is so pressing?"

"On Runic Fang."

The answer caught him off-guard. He had expected 'the Wall', 'King's Landing' but not on a planet in this very system. And not on Runic Fang of all places. There were three settled planets in the Winterfell System: Winterfell Prime, capital of the Northern Sector and citadel of House Stark, where he had been enjoying peace moments ago and the vast majority of the system population worked and lived; Old Bastion, whose extreme seasons and aggressive fauna didn't exactly encourage tourism and intensive colonisation and Runic Fang...well, not a lot of humans lived on this one. The planet was so distant from the sun it was honestly a miracle of the Old Gods there was life on it, and humans rarely set a foot on it unless they were crazy or tired of life. There were blizzards and cataclysmic weather phenomena practically every day, the super-predators living there made their cousins of old Bastion fluffy stuffed animals by comparison and the ancient ruins sometimes uncovered by the weather patterns had long lost all their interests.

"What is the problem with Runic Fang? We have a single orbital station around it and the Marine extreme training base on the equator."

Honestly he had thought training in this sort of hell was the best way to arrive on a real battlefield with missing limbs but Marines had always been particular beings he never fully understood. It was for the better, in all likelihood. Jon Umber was a formidable General and a good drinking partner, but he had no wish to be in his friend's head.

"It's..." Rodrik seemed to search his words, which was extremely unusual for him. "It's complicated."

Eddard sighed. This was going to be one of those days, he just knew it. Every time it happened, the consequences pursued him for several years and created an endless stream of paperwork.

"I appreciate your attempts to present this in a delicate manner, Rodrik. Truly, I do. But I think that at my age, I can handle the truth."

"Approximately ten hours ago my Lord, an ice dragon crashed on the cold tundra ground two hundreds kilometres east of our Marine fortress. Judging by its wounds and the debris it had between its claws, our analysts believe it was dying from a battle fought against a non-human warship and it tried to reach the planet in its last moments of life." Rodrik paused and regarded the data-slate in his hands like if he didn't believe the information on it. "The moment the shockwave of the impact was over, the monitoring satellites reported that the ice dragon was attacked by a pack of battle tanks-sized direwolves and the lone reptile was killed in short order."

Fine, he couldn't handle the truth. Eddard had the sudden urge to take the Winterfell fleet and go down to King's Landing to kill the Rapist. Damn the consequences, he was too old for these potent omens and surreal events.

"Is that all?"

"No, my Lord," unhelpfully replied Rodrik. "The Green Priests are convinced there is and I quote 'an incredibly evil artefact' near the ice dragon's corpse."

"Then tell them to organise an expedition to make sure it is destroyed," commanded the Master of Winterfell. "We have a few hundred thousand troops and entire capital ships squadrons which can be deployed on Runic Edge at a moment's notice and the Priests are what, three hundred strong on Bastion?"

But Rodrik negatively nodded.

"That may not be possible...the direwolves are preventing us from reaching the dragon corpse, my Lord." The old warrior explained and Eddard winced. Direwolves were a symbol for every Northerner and in the last centuries had become so rare the presence of an entire pack was enough to give any proud Northerner a long moment of pause. "But according to the ancient stories, there is a solution..."

"I know the stories they refer to." The ones of First Men riding terrifying predators in battle and putting the fear of the Old Gods in their enemies for centuries. These were tales of a simpler time, where the South had been smart enough to recognise Northerners were not to be trifled with.

The Lord Paramount of the North breathed loudly in the cold air of the Rampart Mountains before turning to kiss Catelyn on the cheek.

"What do you say my love?"

"Five days on the frozen wastes of Runic Fang aren't exactly the holiday I dreamed of...but it is sure to be memorable."

It was by that point Eddard turned his head to watch his children, praying they had been too busy to listen to this conversation.

Judging by Arya's delighted and mischievous expression, this was not the case.

"Yes! We're going to see the direwolves!" His wild daughter shouted while running away with her siblings on her heels. "We're going to ride a direwolf!"

Catelyn sent him a heartbroken look and Eddard was sure his own visage mirrored it. Security problems posed by a carnivorous species bigger than the shadowcats of Bastion aside, the Lord of Winterfell had absolutely no wish to fight a new legislation battle on the pets a Northern officer could or could not bring on deployment.

"Sometimes I think Benjen had the right idea to join the Night's Watch at the very beginning..."

* * *

 **Ser Gerion Lannister, 2.07.300AAC, King Tommen's Last Stand, Outer Edge of the Doom**

Gerion had never been so happy to see the bland shuttle bay of the _Laughing Lion_ again. Given the last hours of horrors, finding something familiar was balm for his soul and unfortunately it was not a literal expression. His honour be damned, if he had more time he would have kissed profusely the ground and muttered prayers to the Seven for hours.

But it was not the moment to rejoice. The second the hatch of his shuttle opened, he stormed outside, protocols and security measures be damned. The trumpets and the ceremonies could be done another day. Followed by his surviving sworn swords, he ran to the _Laughing Lion_ 's bridge while the other assault shuttles were welcomed aboard.

"Tion, get us out of here," he ordered his second. "We have what we came for and I don't want to know if the demons have more horrors in store for us."

"By your command," replied the younger officer. "Engines are hot and we will be ready to depart in four minutes fifteen seconds."

Gerion took a disgusted look at the Valyrian sword hanging to his belt. Yes, they had the object of their quest. Brightroar, after hundreds of years, was once again in Lannister hands. And they had grabbed other weapons and artefacts from the fallen Freehold. It should be a great day for House Lannister and the Western Sector.

It wasn't.

He had met the horrors lurking beyond the gates of reality and it had been a horrifying experience.

Proof of the dire time the crew of the warship faced, not a single spaceman turned his attention in his direction when he entered the flag bridge of the _Laughing Lion_. All their focus was on the tactical display, where the planet they had left moments ago was erupting into continent-sized infernos.

"Talk to me Tion," Gerion urged.

"It began seconds after our last surviving patrols left the ground, Colonel," the face of his right-hand man was livid and Gerion knew that if he was handed a mirror, he would see the same thing on his face. "Everything is in flames."

The pile of rocks they had named Tommen's Last Stand had not been pretty when they had discovered it. It had showed brown, yellow on their sensors, and too little green and blue. If the debris of the ancient Lannister fleet had not been discovered at the surface, they would have probably went to another system...Gerion was not sure if it was a good or a bad thing.

The _Laughing Lion_ began to move ponderously while thousands of kilometres below, the planet was convulsing in agony. The images were blurry and saturated with electronic interferences, but it was largely sufficient to see the fires acting with a supernatural ferocity and horrors emerging from the new volcanoes.

"Get us out of here," the youngest sibling of Lord Tywin Lannister repeated but with more urgency this time. "How many men of the 104th Regiment remain?"

"First reports are still coming in," intervened the Lieutenant in charge of the shuttle logistics. "But it looks like we have recovered less than two hundred men and at least half are injured to varying degrees."

"By the Seven..." Gerion whispered. The Western infantry had been slightly overmanned before their deployment to the surface with one thousand and nine hundred valid soldiers. Moreover, Gerion had made sure when he departed for this dangerous travel all of them were veterans of Pyke.

They had been slaughtered all the same.

"All their heavy equipment was lost," added unnecessarily a supply officer. Fine, it was not like they were going to recover it in the magma lakes forming where their temporary camp had been located.

"Time for an emergency jump?"

The tactical display flashed in a bright red. The planet moments ago had been burning but now it was tearing itself apart.

 _ **We are the flame**_. _**We are the Light**_.

The imperious sentences had not come out of a human mouth.

"What in the Seven Hells was that?"

Two warren officers had fallen to their knees, their noses and their eyes bleeding unnaturally. A Rock Officer was screaming and striking his legs to deal with a threat which was simply not there.

"Oh, Merciful Mother..." Tion Laster's plea made him turn towards the bridge's bay. Energy was pouring out of the planet, island-sized rocks were impossibly launched and something was coming out.

 _Father and Warrior protect us_.

Gerion had never considered himself a devout man but should the Seven come down from the Sevens right now, he would be their eternal follower and they would no fiercest champion than him. Tommen's Doom had not been a planet. It had been a trap and a prison in one.

 _The first planet of the ancient Freehold we visit and we meet THAT_.

"Jump translation in..." began the astrogation officer. "Wait a minute. Where are the jump points?"

Consternation was in everyone's mind. On another day, it would have been a poor joke. Jump points were gravitic anomalies which had been used for hundreds and maybe thousands of years. Sometimes they became unstable or their stellar locations were modified but it was a process decades in the making and it was when the phenomenon was fast. You could not enter a system, wait a few hours and just remark they were gone!

But this was the Doom and apparently the physic laws meant nothing here. The stars themselves on the outside seemed to become stranger and stranger. Some were disappearing, other were surrounded by fire coronas while the worst appeared to bleed.

"The path back to Volantis doesn't exist anymore." Lannister Navy officers were supposed to stay stoic and stone-faced in all circumstances but here it was showing its limits as a couple of men burst in tears. "What are we going to do?"

"We will jump anyway." A good third of his men regarded him like he had suddenly grown a second head and the two-thirds remaining were looking like criminals who had just been told their death sentence had been adjourned for a few days. "I think this is a trick like they used in the temple they had on the planet."

"You mean we are in one of their hellish illusions?" demanded a spaceman. The idea seemed to give them back their courage so Gerion nodded confidently while inside he was not that convinced.

"Anyway we can't stay here..."

The abomination had nearly got through what should have been an impenetrable planetary crust but which had shattered like a biscuit. It was...ghastly.

With all the flames and destruction, a magnificent dragon like the ones he had promised to Tyrion would have been nice but the thing was more a mix between a worm, a shark and a butterfly. The body of the first, the maw and the teeth of the second and the wings of the third were indeed present in this order.

Of course, it was also a hundred times the size of a ship of the line so in a real confrontation beauty wouldn't matter.

"Course calculated for the jump point which-is-no-longer-there," announced the light brown-haired astrogation officers. "We need to last four and a half hours."

"I fear the _Laughing Lion_ is not going to hold that long," said dejectedly a warrant officer on the right. "The monster is about to open fire."

"We are out of range from conventional weapons," protested a subordinate of the tactical officer. "Distance between us and...the worm-thing is two and a half million kilometres and our acceleration is largely superior to his. There's no way..."

 **Embrace the Kiss of flames**.

Crewmen collapsed over the bridge in agony. Some never stood again, and a pool of blood grew under them. A few had to be put down by force as they went crazy and tried to smash their consoles or attack their fellow spacemen.

The gigantic abomination opened its maw and unleashed a torrent of flames. Those were not missiles, and yet these brilliant projectiles of light were faster than any man-made killing weapon.

"Stand by missile defence," Gerion said, drawing Brightroar and cutting down one of his men who had charged directly at him like one of these insane gladiator fighters he had seen in the Great Coliseum of Volantis. On a normal day, doing a thing like this would have left him horrified and the culprit would have been awaiting his court-martial. In this unnatural sector of the galaxy, seeing his officers shooting in the head some of their mind-befuddled subordinates was just the only choice they had left.

"Missile defence active, for all the good it is going to make us," acknowledged Tion. "These things are coming too fast and our counter-missiles will have just a single volley to counter them."

The prediction was verified mere minutes later. The entire space was tainted in a reddish colour and the incoming storm was racing towards them through the void like a horde of light. Laser, plasma, missiles and counter-missiles, practically every weapon they could direct at it was firing as fast as the tolerances of their builders allowed.

It wasn't enough. It was like fighting an ocean of evil with firearms.

"We are not going to make it." There were still more than four away from the possible location of the jump point and the worm-shark-butterfly monster was continuously firing at them. Disregarding the first wave they were pouring their firepower into, there were already three more on their way. "Prepare the _Laughing Lion_ for an emergency jump."

"It will be a suicide so deep in-system." Pair of green eyes watched each other but not with the anger this insane proposition would have received if they were near Casterly Rock.

"We are dead anyway if we stay here." The knight of House Lannister retorted. "And since the planet and everything we know have gone to hell, the rules of gravity and the laws of physics may not be the ones we take for granted anymore. Prepare the jump."

"By your order..."

The wave of flames and light struck them like the hammer of a furious deity. But no compartment was opened into space, no alarms sounded to inform the bridge of a breach in the hull. No, the result of this overwhelming wave was far worse. From the communications consoles mounted screams of agonies and choirs which nothing human in them.

"Demons! Demons in the crew quarters!"

"Reactor number two is under attack by the monsters!"

"They are on every deck! The Seven save us they are everywhere!"

This was all the warning they got before the flames coalesced on the bridge. There were beings of light, beautiful and ugly at the same time. They were part reptile but bipedal and human-shaped, surrounded in flames.

 _ **Flames for the Light. Die and be reborn in the warm embrace our Lord**_.

A loud battle-cry answered them. For better or for worse, they were men of Lannisport and the Rock, the descendants of Lann the Clever, they ruled the Western Sector with a fist of gem stones, gold and ruthlessness. They would never bend their knees to the Enemy.

"HEAR ME ROAR!"

Laser weapons poured the content of their batteries, vibro-swords struck and Gerion led his men into the melee. Brightroar in his hands, he danced for his life, parrying and attacking. The Valyrian Steel and the conventional weapons were killing them, but there were so many opponents the Westerners were each fighting two or three opponents. The bridge was consumed in fire. Atrocious moans were coming from everywhere.

And then suddenly it was over. The monsters flickered out of existence, banished by the blades and guns, though the former seemed to have been far more effective.

"Make the emergency jump now." He ordered to Tion Laster whose gaunt appearance was the one of a man who had swam in human blood and organs. A good thing they had all worn red uniforms and armours. "The second wave will be upon us in a matter of minutes. We will not get another chance."

About a third of the bridge effectives had been slaughtered or had to be executed as their brains had not managed to cope with the horror.

"What is the situation on the other sections?"

"The infantry armoury is under heavy attack, Lieutenant Sarring and the rest of the 104th are surrounded there. Half of our starboard armaments and defensive systems have melted." The Lieutenant in charge of logistics recited with a tone of funeral, his vibro-sword fuming like it had been in contact with something incredibly corrosive. "Most of our shuttles are gone; the missile stores are a sort of four dimensions maze that should be by all rights impossible. Demons' presence is literally everywhere and nowhere, there are spacemen reporting they hear tortured people screaming in their ears at every moment. Most of our sensors are reporting interferences and anomalies no matter the physical evidences. Two damage-control centres are out of service and we don't exactly know what is happening inside. And the hull integrity is...problematic."

"Excellent," Gerion said, ignoring the incredulous expressions he received in return. "I think it is time to begin our counter-attack."

Seven Hells or Seven Heavens, he would go back to the Rock. It was out of question his eldest brother got rid of him that easily.

* * *

 **Colonel Janos Slynt, 2.07.300AAC, King's Landing System**

The Royal Sun Casino was the greatest casino of the city of King's Landing and the most well-known as well. With its classical Valyrian architecture in marble and its golden sun-shaped fountains and sculptures, a week did not pass without it being shown on the holo-news or an ads campaign. It was a gigantic construction: not counting the main entrance lighted day and night and taking half of the avenue, there were seven skyscrapers and hundreds of smaller buildings. And every construction had been built for the greater glory of the games.

They were six thousand-plus slot machines, three thousand-plus table games, hundreds of special rooms for private parties, a gigantic holo-display to bet in live on horse races and many card games popular from Asshai to Oldtown. Cyvasse games could be played for astronomical stakes with gold sets. All the variants of poker from the common Five Cart Draw to the Tyroshi Crazy High had their experts here. The Royal Sun was acknowledged as the third most prestigious casino in this part of the galaxy, behind a Volantene and a Braavosi game centre.

For those who wanted to take a break from the games, there were activities to content them. Dozens of restaurants proposed a wide range of local Westerosi food and there were foreign cooks too. Ten-star inns proposed rooms at indecent prices, the privileged clients could relax in a ten thousand square meters spa and there were three large public swimming pools. In the middle of the fountains there was an impressive golden liner-terrace, men and women wanting to practise their favourite sports could do so as golf courses, work-out rooms and indoor sport fields had been included along with cutting edge racing air-cars simulators.

You didn't need to be a genius to realise that in this place, fortunes were lost every minute and the owners of this place were not going to be poor any time soon. The profits made were top-secret, but the money won by the casino every day was probably enough to feed a hundred million people of King's Landing's poorer social classes.

Not that the Royal Sun owners and their clients cared of course. The casino had been built under the orders of King Aegon IV the Unworthy and after its confiscation when the first family of owners revealed themselves to be Blackfyre loyalists, the establishment had returned to the Crown and had remained in the grasp of the Iron Throne since. Situated in one of the upper-class neighbourhoods of the capital, the games centre was barely forty kilometres away from the gates of the Red Keep and the Volantene and Tyroshi embassies were not far from here. The stores and mansions between them were not exactly modest, really. This was a part of King's Landing which had been spared the tumultuous events culminating in King Aerys' death and the pillages which had followed. On the other hand, the issue of being intact had not stopped the great companies from demanding more renovations, more funds, more everything to embellish the avenue. It was difficult to argue the Red Keep had not required heavy reparations when the dust settled and King Rhaegar was crowned...but this street – the Avenue of Meraxes to call it by its name – had grown fat from the money the Lords and the nobility had not raised a finger to earn.

Janos Slynt had never set a foot inside the Royal Sun Casino by the way. Yes, it was a pretty sight but the pay of a Goldcloak Colonel wasn't that important. The Crown didn't pay much the men supposed to enforce the peace, billions of thieves, crooks, swindlers and scum or not. And he had a family to feed. His wife had a minor bureaucrat job in one of the Treasury agencies so thankfully it added a second income but the gold required to buy a modest apartment outside the slums was ruinous. He had four children to raise, three sons and one daughter. Morros, his eldest, had gone to a military school of the Crown Army despite his warnings that war was nothing like the holo-movies he was so fond of. Three more months and he would be a proud soldier, gold battle-armour and all. Jothos, his cadet, wanted to join the Navy and was about to enter it as a simple spaceman. Danos and Alia were still at school and had no professions in mind for their future though his baby girl dreamed to become a bard and become one of the star-singers the galaxy adulated.

Raising and schooling their children had severely emptied their purses, but Janos had been determined to offer them the education his own father could not pay for. Son of a butcher, he remembered very well what a hindrance it had been once he had wanted to climb up in the ranks of the City's Watch.

And the knights and the sons of the nobility wondered why he and his colleagues didn't raise their voice in anger to stop the bribery, the traffic of promotions and the hundreds of 'protection tariffs' in the narrow streets of King's Landing City. Oh, poor them. Daddy had just bought them their own house in front of the town's sept...and perhaps the sport complex, the shops and the rest of the offices available nearby. They were living with a silver spoon in their mouths and bank accounts eternally replenishing once they reached the bottom. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken the reason he and so many Goldcloaks were forced to patrol around tonight was probably because many Gate Commanders and high-ranking officers were inside the casino.

In other circumstances, patrolling here wouldn't have bothered him. Janos and his men were paid for their extra hours and the perimeter of the casino was devoid of danger, which was a welcome difference with the most difficult areas of Fleabottom and the Rows. But he had had plans for a little restaurant this night, Lord Commander Rykker had informed them at the last moment they had to work past their allowed hours and finally, their presence was completely useless. The Royal Sun Casino had a large contingent of security guards and many expensive measures available to them. Honestly, they were far better armed than his men. The only weapons authorised by their mighty superiors had been laser pistols and a few vibro-sticks, so no rifles and swords, never mind the big guns.

Provided they had been granted the right of searching the thousands of curious smallfolk walking, laughing and celebrating in front of the casino, the issues should have been reasonable. But it was out of the question to scare the sheep eager to spend their gold dragons in the purses of the highborn.

As a result, there was nothing to do but stay near their golden air-cars and in theory show a vigilant attitude. In practise, the crowd passing before them made a mockery of their efforts. Half of his effectives were busy playing games or betting on who was the next Lord they would see arriving or departing.

The radio crackled to let talk the vice of one of the young recruits he had ordered to stay close the casino doors. "Colonel, there's a Lord leaving."

"Are you sure, Los?" A rapid look at his watch informed him it was not yet eleven o'clock and the nobles in general didn't leave before the night was almost over.

"Sure, Colonel," The voice of the young brown-haired Goldcloak had hours ago lost its enthusiastic tone. "It's Lord Rosby and his cousins."

"Oh, him," Lord Gyles 'Sickness' Rosby was a familiar sight for the Goldcloaks these last months...he was a Planetary Lord, he was fat, he was old and he was useless. The latter point was shared with a lot of nobles and unfortunately may not be spoken in public, unless you fancied visiting the prisons of the Secret Police.

Rosby was also very rich, and given that he had no children and his death appeared to be imminent, he was always followed by a band of cousins, 'friends', distant relatives, courtesans and young people. Needless to say, they obviously weren't interested about his gold or his titles.

"We aren't supposed to protect him, he has his own protection detail." The Colonel said as a sizeable of men-at-arms and sworn soldiers left their reinforced air-cars to prepare their master's exit. "Keep an eye on him," he commanded on the standard frequency, "but no need to protect him unless the crowd becomes violent. Nice job."

The order was in fact nearly impossible to accomplish. Seeing a VIP leaving the palatial buildings, thousands of people wanting to take a holo-picture or satisfy their curiosity converged and even the Rosby security detail had every difficulty in the world to reproduce a formation looking like a guard of honour.

His Goldcloaks did not stay quiet in front of the 'spectacle'.

"Look at that car! Is it a Leonine GT4500?

"Nice to see some have seven hundred thousand dragons to spend..." The envy in the voice of the Lieutenant was easy to hear.

"Bah, you haven't seen what the Braavosi last fortnight arrived with. Now that, that was a true speedster..."

It took several minutes for the ermine-coloured uniforms to appear, surrounding their Lord. Once more, Lord Gyles looked frail, sickly and miserable. Janos was ready to bet his night had been interrupted by another health problem.

"Why is this cretin going to the casino when he's on his deathbed?" wondered a private.

This was a good question, actually. Between the crowd outside and the cohort of friends inside, Rosby would not have a moment to breathe and probably go back to his home exhausted and half-dead.

Janos was not going to shed a tear for one of the highborn but-

"THIS WORLD BELONGS TO THE SEVEN!"

The scream was so powerful it went over the racket made by the men and women on the avenue. Janos searched the crowd and glimpsed a few white septon robes in a group twenty metres of the crowd. Weird, the servants of the Seven did not go to the casinos, these modern empires of damnation. He seized his radio...

The explosion was terrible. There had been far louder noises of destruction years ago during the battle in the streets of the city but this time he had no ear protection...no good protection at all in fact.

Janos was thrown against the sides of the air-car behind him. Windows and countless objects were pulverised. Men women ran away, a gigantic wave of panic nothing could stop. Where the Rosby air-car had been, there was a massive crater and hundreds of bodies sprawled everywhere. The entire area was painted in blood, corpses and carcasses of vehicles. Sirens and screams filled the air. His back hurt terribly. There was blood everywhere.

One of the sun statues near the entrance collapsed in an abominable crash. Janos touched his visage and realise his upper lip and his nose were bleeding. He groaned loudly and tried to stand up but his legs were like they were made of jelly. Many lights had exploded and were projecting cascades of sparks and small fires on the ground and the blood-soaked grounds.

"What in the Seven Hells just happened?"


	12. Divided Council

**Author's note** : And here is the new chapter of Let the Galaxy Burn. It begins with aftermath of the terrorist attacks having just struck King's Landing and continues several arcs which may or may not have their importance for the rest of the year 300AAC.

If you want more to read, the maps and the warships I use as models or the tropes, here are the interesting links.

TV Tropes Page: / pmwiki/ / Fanfic/ LetTheGalaxyBurn

Alternate History page (useful for conversations, maps and ships models but you need an account, you have to remove the spaces): www. alternate history forum/ threads/ let-the-galaxy-burn- asoiaf-space-opera-au.396049 /

If you want to support my writing on P a treon, the link is: www. p a treon / Antony444

And now that everything is said, let the political disputes and the conspiracies of betrayal begin...

* * *

 **The Dying Peace Arc**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Divided Council**

 _The bombing in front of the Royal Sun Casino which caused the death of Lord Gyles Rosby and his relatives was just the first of seven attacks bloodying the streets of King's Landing in this night of 02.07.300AAC. The Eternity Hotel, the Silver Flames Bank headquarters, the Jade Sept of the East, the Red Temple of the Cult of the Lord of Light, the Iridescent Palace and the Museum of the Essossi Free Planets were bombed too. With seven deadly attacks, the number of dead was in the hundreds, an unavoidable result since the perpetrators had used military-grade explosives to massacre the greatest number of persons possible. Thousands of men, women and children were wounded as well, either by the explosions or the desperate crowd trampling when the Kingslanders tried to flee the grounds of the bloodshed._

 _The medical services of the capital, never noted for their utmost efficiency and skills, were overwhelmed in minutes by the torrent of casualties. In every hospital, military or non-military, the rooms were filled to the brink with dying people. The cries of joy and celebration were replaced by agony laments._

 _The City Watch and its various auxiliary agencies tried to keep control, but panic spread nonetheless and for a few hours it was not false to say the streets of King's Landing the City were in chaos. Shops were raided, several quarters went down in flames and in many cases the absence of retaliation from the military authorities made sure the situation spiralled out of control._

 _By the morning of 03.07.300AAC, King's Landing was a bloodied city and if order was restored, it was a fragile thing and the appearance of peace had been brutally murdered. While the real number of victims would probably never be discovered, official estimations were already of twenty-four thousand dead and perhaps twice that many injured men, women and children. Before ten days had passed, the dead toll would skyrocket to fifty thousand and many of the wounded were crippled for the rest of their lives._

 _In the aftermath of this heinous attack, the rumours on who could have committed these bombings went wild. From an incomprehensible scheme from Northern secret agents to the vanguard of a new Blackfyre plot, uncountable possibilities were evoked. Several holo-news services openly said in front of thousands spectators two or three of the terrorists had been identified as Ironborn before retracting their words, an affirmation which did nothing to improve the image of the inhabitants of the Iron Sector._

 _But the attacks were not claimed by Ironborn or former rebels desirous to humiliate the Targaryen dynasty for their past slights. In this morning where tens of thousands Kingslanders woke up in tears and mourning, a fanatical organisation naming itself the Seven Sparrows claimed responsibility for the terrorist bombings._

 _In a long news release, the spokesman of this organisation no one had had a clue of the existence before that month screamed their culpability for the murders and the bloodshed unleashed in King's Landing. These seven attacks were voiced to be the answer for the assassination of the previous High Septon of the Faith, approved and ordered by King Rhaegar the Cursed. The Seven Sparrows openly stated the greatest religion of Westeros, the Faith of Seven, had become totally corrupt and its leadership was now serving body and soul the Iron Throne without considering the spiritual needs of the smallfolk. The Seven Sparrows, it was affirmed, had delivered a blow to the sinful, immoral and heretical forces worming their way in the heart of the Seven Sectors and this was the beginning of a long-needed purge._

 _Galactic Targaryen News and the other governmental news services quickly presented the culprits as dangerous fanatics and the High Septon himself excommunicated the Seven Sparrows, whoever they might be, for these atrocities and the innocent victims they had murdered in cold blood. But the damage had been done. Many locations visited by the wealthy and powerful Kingslanders had been bombed, but millions of the poorer inhabitants of the King's Landing System would never set a foot in these places and were stunned at the amount of wealth and luxury which had been brought down by the fanatics. The High Septon speech did not calm matter: the supreme leader of the Faith was puffy, old and uncharismatic in the extreme. Despite the best efforts of the elite propagandists, there was not much they could do to make attractive the person under the crystal tiara. Millions and millions of Kingslanders and billions of the Crown Sector had thus the confirmation the accusations of the Sparrows had at least some foundation in reality._

 _Still, there was an ocean of anger directed at the terrorists and the Crown agents quickly capitalised on it. Cells long suspected to hide the most radical elements of the Faith were raided by the dozens and hundreds of people were arrested. The Goldcloaks ruthlessly crushed hundreds of gangs who had a reputation to sell illegal weapons to the highest bidder. The Secret Police actions were not secret anymore, and highly wanted suspects disappeared in the night, their fate a warning to all that challenging the rule of the Iron Throne was the last mistake a man would ever make._

 _Many dangerous plots and foreign agents' schemes were discovered and stopped by this outburst of activity. But in spite of dismantling enemy cells, the Crown forces were not able to arrest anyone they could link with certainty to the Seven Sparrows – though plenty of Goldcloak officers liked to pretend the contrary in order to boost the morale of their troops._

 _The religious terrorists who had put themselves at the top of the black list of the Targaryen regime were impossible to find. And in the mean time, the political tensions were growing uncontrollable. The Rosby succession, which until now had seemed a minor issue, was suddenly evolving into a painful curse for the Small Council and the Lords of King Rhaegar the First..._

From Night Falls by Yzabel Tendao, 317AAC.

 _You asked in a previous missive how the Kingdom of Westeros ruled itself these days. The answer is very badly. The mental health of the King has degraded severely in the last decade and the court is trying to modify, adapt or ignore as best as they can his insane orders. The Small Council –which should in theory govern until the King recovers his wits – is extremely busy quarrelling for the most futile issues. Many bards have already propagated the picture of angry five year-old children fighting each other while the house around them is burning. The Guilds, the Noble Houses, the armies and the fleet are paralysed most of the time by budget and political infighting. I fear that at the first crisis, the edifice is going to fall apart and start another civil war..._

Extract from a report of a Volantene diplomat to his superiors, 299AAC.

* * *

 **Lord Varys Tivario, 03.07.300AAC, King's Landing System**

All it had taken for the King to grace of his presence the Council Room this year was the worst massacre on this planet since Operation Downfall seventeen years ago. Just for that, he wanted to hang these Seven Sparrows murderers at the nearest lamppost.

And yes, Varys was well-aware they were the third day of the seven month in the year of grace 300 after the Conquest. Aerys had been so paranoiac after the Defiance of Duskendale that no official council could start without him being present. Just after the Greyjoy Rebellion, the signs had been there his eldest son intended to follow the same policy but these noble and pious intentions had died before the year was over.

A particularly venomous tongue would have affirmed at this point that a lot of things the King of Westeros did were indeed poisoned or killed in the space of a standard month.

Varys couldn't possibly comment in public, he liked his head where it was, thank you very much.

"My Small Council will deal with these terrorists and the Rosby succession. I must consult the prophecies and see if the course of the future hasn't been irrevocably damaged."

It took a monumental effort to not roll his eyes, sigh loudly or bash his shaven head against the table. It was even more difficult to keep his smiling expression in front of his fellow councillors and the rest of the assembly. A fast observation of the room made him wonder if he should have bothered. Lord Walther Whent was showing a horrified face and many councillors showed expressions of discontent or outright anger.

Truthfully, Varys understood them a bit. It was bad enough that the King's orders to the Council had been sent by letters and formulated like they were insolent servants in the last months, but these powerful Lords and Masters had at least had the hope Rhaegar would be more respectful and rational when he was in public.

They had obviously been completely wrong.

Fortunately, the madman turned around and left the Council chambers immediately, followed by a crowd of about fifty-plus men and women. In other circumstances, it would not have bothered Varys so much, provided these persons were competent bureaucrats, soldiers or bankers. He would have placed a few agents in their ranks to make sure nothing problematic unfolded without his knowledge, but he could have lived with it.

But this weird group was definitely belonging to any of these categories. There were according to his last reports: two ex-maesters excluded from the Citadel for their outrageous views, four women pretending to be hedge witches, six supposedly-famous astrologers, two extremely corrupt septons, three self-proclaimed 'prophets', five Essossi cultists of minor deities venerated from Braavos to Lys, a man pretending to be a Green Priest but who was in reality an imposter from the Stoney Sept, and of course several Red Priests and Red Priestesses led by the Red Witch of Asshai. And those were just the important characters. As a result, the lone agent he had infiltrated among these mad and crazy men and women was not exactly reliable.

When the heavy door closed in a sonorous crack, there were many around the priceless marble table who breathed in relief. Varys took a look at the superb platinum watch Illyrio had offered him so many years ago. Three minutes and fourteen seconds, this new royal intervention had to be some kind of record in itself.

"Good riddance," grumbled Lantion Lannister, the current Master of Coin. The golden hairs of the man were half-turned to grey, but the glare he threw at the recently closed door was not tired or devoid of energy. "May he return to his prophecies and let us govern the realm in peace."

Alone from the councillors, the Hand of the King looked like he was about to protest these words, but after seeing no one disagreed, Walter Whent huffed and limited himself to groan in his chair. It was a wise decision, really. The only member of the Council who would have defended their sovereign for sure was Ser Arthur Dayne, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was guarding the Crown Prince thousand kilometres away from the Red Keep and the capital, in case there were more bombings.

"Peace is not at the order of the day, I'm afraid," declared Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Information. "The capital was attacked and people certainly don't feel safe anymore."

Varys found himself nodding with the others. He didn't like Petyr Baelish very much – no, in fact this was wrong, he didn't like the man at all – but force was to admit that in this case he had a point.

"I must admit my failure and those of my services," Varys said out loud, attracting some surprised looks. Ah, they hadn't expected him to recognise he had been unable to see the terrorists coming. "The Crown Intelligence Agency never had a clue these... 'Seven Sparrows' existed or how destructive their intentions were. In fact we are twenty-four hours after the attacks and we have absolutely nothing on them except their claim they are behind the bombings."

"The same is true of the Secret Police," told Ser Alliser Thorne with his usual angry and insulting behaviour. "We have interrogated many troublesome Priests and nutcases who believe they are accomplishing the will of the Seven, but apart from resolving several unresolved crimes, we met everywhere dead ends. No one seemed to have ever heard of these 'Seven Sparrows'." The black-clothed man sniffed disdainfully. "I find it extremely suspicious. These terrorists had military explosives and these weapons have to come from somewhere!"

"The arsenals of the Goldcloaks and the Gold Fists in the system are verifying their stocks as we speak but so far nothing is missing," Lord Commander of the City's Watch Ser Jaremy Rykker spoke. Unlike his Stokeworth predecessor, Rykker had come with a fine tunic and a golden badge, not in a pompous battle-armour. "The security measures implemented after Operation Downfall appeared to have worked. Wherever these terrorists found their explosives, it was not in my forces' armouries."

Well, this was good news. Of course, the reason the Goldcloaks weren't selling anymore their own weapon stocks to outlaws was self-preservation. It had been brutally pointed to them during Downfall how likely they were going to be the targets of said weapons if an insurrection started. And the City's Watch always preferred their fights to be one-sided with their opponents armed with sticks and stones.

It was then the turn of Lord Tommen Costayne, bannersman of House Hightower and Master of Laws, to intervene. Unlike the Lannister or the Rykker councillor, he looked haggard and nervous. Not entirely without reason, since a lot of his directives had eased security orders and allowed the terrorists to kill themselves close to important monuments of King's Landing. His star was on the wane, and the Reacher Lord knew it.

"We will have to wait for the official analyses, but some of my best agents on the terrain called back to tell the explosives inflicted wounds similar to the ammunition Tully soldiers used during the Usurper's Rebellion."

"These stocks have been widely dispersed during the years preceding the Greyjoy Rebellion," Grandmaester Pycelle commented while caressing his long white beard with a wise expression. It was amusing how a man violating his vows fifty times a day could look so distinguished and show to the world a face of intelligence and calm. "It will be difficult from simple analyses to track back which army was charged to dispose of them."

Difficult, it was a good one. It was bloody impossible, that was the painful truth. When the River Sector military forces had been demobilised after the Peace of Maidenpool, what had been a unified navy and army had fragmented into dozens of groups. The Lannisters and the Tyrells had fallen like a pack of predators on the vanquished Lords and Ladies to empty their depots, and they had just been the first, not the only ones. It had been a pillage tacitly approved by the Crown...and Varys knew there were very rare data-slates and official documentation to support it. It wouldn't do for the victims to protest in front of a tribunal they had been robbed of their personal weapons, after all. Add to this chaos that there was no 'River Army' or 'River Navy' today. Oh, technically the Darrys were the Masters of the Sector, but this was a polite fiction. Between the Blackwood-Mallister block, the Tullys, the Brackens, the Mootons, the Freys and of course the Darry-Whent supporters, who owned what was always difficult to assess.

By instinct, Varys felt he would have to search in the direction of Houses having kept their old warships of the 280s in commission but it was possible the problem had come from another leak. With the list of enemies the Targaryen dynasty had accumulated in the last decades, everything was possible.

"Assuming the preliminary analyses agree with these facts, we may have enough justification to launch a serious investigation," said gravely Lord Whent, his old and wrinkled face trying to adopt a posture similar to Pycelle and failing miserably in the process.

Varys had a powerful urge to slam the head of the useless Hand of the King against a hard surface, but once again had to keep his smiling persona. Really, it was becoming more and more difficult to continue his role as a spy. The Small Council and the court were hitting his nerves with an alarming frequency these last months.

Thankfully, there was another man to correct the Lord of Harrenhal and this stupidity was right in his domain of competence.

"And exactly against whom should the Crown open an investigation against, my Lord Hand?" The mockery in Lord Petyr Baelish's voice was unmistakeable. "Lord Hoster Tully? He's rather dead, I'm told. The Seven Sparrows? They're bloody maniacs and apparently we can't find them! The River Lords? I'm sure half of them would rise in rebellion if we accused them with weak evidence like this! I suppose we could accuse the Northerners or the Essossi like we always accuse them when something turns wrong, but then we will have to present proof and there isn't a clue who has armed the terrorists!"

"Enough, Baelish," The tone of High Admiral Monford Velaryon was thick with disgust. "You may have a point, but your tongue went too far."

The Master of Ships and the Master of Information could hardly be more different nobles. One had hairs of the purest silver they took from their Valyrian lineage, the other had common black hair with light threads of grey. One was a cousin of Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the previous Lord Admiral who had heroically led the Deep Space Fleet against the Iron Fleet and won the Battle of the Arbor at the price of his own life. Monford had very deep pockets and it was his connections and the youth of the young Lord Jacaerys who had propelled him to this prestigious office. Baelish on the other hand had risen post by post without the slightest support from a powerful Great Lord. Technically, Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish had always been a Lord, but the system under his rule was so lightly populated, dirt poor and away from the trade hubs there were provincial highborn with twenty times his coffers and manpower resources.

It went without saying the two loathed each other. It had begun with Baelish calling Velaryon – what were the exact words again? – ah, yes 'an Admiral in slippers' in an interview and it had degenerated from there.

"You're right," agreed the Valeman with another of his amused and insincere faces. "My deepest apologies," there was absolutely no contrition or remorse in his attitude, "I was asking for precisions".

No one immediately spoke after this sardonic comment. The Master of Assassins was silent under his dark hood – Varys could not even tell if the man was asleep or not under this heavy cloak or for that matter if it was a man at all. Aron Santagar, the Master of Arms, looked supremely unconcerned by all this agitation and was reading the latest reports on the bombings. Whose brilliant idea had it been to put this Dornish on the Small Council? The Knight was useless, he had no interest in helping them ruling the realm and as far as everyone could tell, House Martell had never taken this nomination as something more than a half-hearted apology for the events having caused the death of Princess Elia Martell.

"We need to find the Seven Sparrows before the month is over," urged Lord Costayne.

Thorne barked contemptuously at the Master of Laws' assertion.

"My men are good, but they can't interrogate corpses in a thousand pieces." The Head of the Secret Police eyes were dark. "If we had had proper security measures in places, maybe we could have captured one of those terrorists before they blew themselves or found one of the hideouts where they prepared the massacre."

"I had my orders from the King, Thorne!"

"The King or Mace Tyrell?" The derisive question of Monford Velaryon was the big provocation which broke the tiny pretence of civility still in the air. "We all know the Reach is more interested in filling their own pockets than saving lives..."

"It's not like you have any room to speak, Velaryon."

"The taxes on wines of the 290s have been increased of eight percent because of you!"

"I have no lesson to receive of a Lannister sitting on a mountain of gold..."

And just like this, it was not a Council session anymore but a shouting session. Monford Velaryon hated Littlefinger, but this loathing was nothing compared to the enmity he had with Costayne or Lantion Lannister. Baelish was in the end an upstart who had climbed too far above his real place; a Hightower vassal and a Lannister emissary were the true threats directed at House Velaryon from his point of view. In seconds, the Master of Coin, the Master of Ships and the Master of Laws were vociferating and insulting each other, with Thorne and Rykker on the sidelines trying to take their part of flesh in this dispute. Walther Whent looked completely lost as usual. In theory, the most powerful man after the King himself, the Master of Harrenhal was an old man and the good fortunes enjoyed by his House and his sons did not mean he had managed to impose his will to the Lords Paramount and the greatest of the Noble Houses. House Whent was once again powerful in the River Sector, but this was in large part because the planets there lacked a strong leadership to keep them loyal.

Varys sighed as the accusations flew from every corner of the marble table. One might have expected nobles of such long and distinguished lines to behave like the charismatic and competent advisors they were supposed to be. Unfortunately, like in many things, there was a large difference between theory and the ugly reality. And the reality was that the Small Council didn't function anymore, if it had truly worked at all since Rhaegar had taken this bloody crown and sat on the Iron Throne for the first time.

Aron Santagar and the Master of Assassins were ignoring the angry exchanges and Pycelle was taking notes on a data-slate – in all likelihood his version of the session which would rapidly find its way to Casterly Rock. If there one thing the Grandmaester could be counted on, it was its total subservience to Lord Tywin Lannister.

Petyr Baelish was smirking, not saying a word but clearly watching the 'spectacle' proposed by the other Masters. This one was dangerous. Varys admitted in the privacy of his mind it had taken him a long time – not before 291AAC – to realise how complex the machinations were in this seemingly unimpressive head. Petyr Baelish, son of a former mercenary captain favoured by Jon Arryn, had huge ambitions and sadly not a shadow of reluctance to achieve them. Evicted from Riverrun and a pariah inside his own Sector, many Lords and Knights would have retreated to their holdings and remained there until their deaths.

The man nicknamed Littlefinger was not built in this mould. As the hostilities ended between the Iron Throne and the Rebels, the forgotten Vale Lord had been on the move. First, the penniless Petyr Baelish had concluded a marriage between himself and Janyce Hunter. The Old Lord of Longbow Hall was notoriously avaricious, and a marriage with the Lord of the Southern Fingers System must have appeared like a miracle: the groom was so poor he could propose the third of a normal dowry and still see the bargain be accepted. Lord Eon had probably laughed at the good joke he had given a man who would never have the opportunity to be a threat to his powerbase and his influence.

Baelish had not lost time, however. The next month, he had used the money provided by the dowry to buy an important commission in the offices of the Crown Information Services at Duskendale. After that, his ascension had been in all honesty phenomenal, alternating between important jobs at Galactic Targaryen News and moving in the headquarters of the Master of Information at the capital itself. On the surface, Baelish had been toothless and a talented administrator uninvolved in the Lords' power struggles. In reality, Littlefinger had pushed Lord Garth 'the Gross' Tyrell and his main subordinates to tear apart their reputations in outrageous scandals. By the time Balon Greyjoy's Rebellion was ruthlessly crushed, the Tyrell Lord had been a pariah, and Petyr Baelish had become his temporary successor...an 'interim' which had become quite permanent when year after year the candidates willing to replace him suddenly revealed themselves unsuitable for one reason or another. Some of his tricks had managed to surprise even Varys when the full extent of certain conspiracies came to light.

To sum-up the situation, Baelish had proven he was extremely dangerous. Worse, Varys had not much pressure to apply on this scoundrel. Littlefinger's wife was fiercely loyal to him, as were his daughters Meredyth and Catelyn. The Valeman was charismatic, ambitious and ready to throw in the flames his 'allies' if it gave him more power and influence. And the best part in this was that the Lords of Westeros were completely unaware of the snake they had invited inside their ranks. Why should they worry at all? Littlefinger had no warships, no great armies and no formidable cohorts to wage war against them. He had only his words...the similarities with Varys' role were really striking, in hindsight.

The noise from the verbal fight augmented once again, forcing the Master of Whisperers to redirect his attention to the quarrelling children – pardon, the noble and wise nobles debating loudly.

"Enough or the King will have to nominate a new Small Council," the Lord of the Seven Deaths spoke and it was like someone had pressed the button to silence the entire room. The councillors had pale faces when they turned it at the dark-hooded being on the left corner and their dispute had been swept under the carpet in a hurry. Imbeciles they might be, but the Lords of the Small Council had still enough self-preservation in their skulls to fear the Master of Assassins.

"The next order of the day is the Rosby succession," began Varys, pointedly ignoring how half of the participants were looking worriedly at the assassin threatening them by his or her simple presence.

"There were no survivors among Lord Rosby and his retinue," Lord Baelish for once did not look amused. His chosen candidate to replace the sickly Lord had been a favourite for the gamblers and all this investment had disappeared in a single explosion. "Lord Rosby and twenty-six men and women who could have continued the Rosby line in his name have been confirmed dead."

"There are a few lesser families with the name in the Rosby System," suggested helpfully the Head of the Crown Intelligence Agency.

"It is out of the question to raise Hedge Knights and paupers to the dignity of Noble Houses!" The roar which had come out of the mouth from Lord Costayne was spoken like it was a reflex of survival. Varys rolled his eyes mentally. The bannersmen of Highgarden had a very high idea of their noble blood and did their best to stop any possible changes in the cradle. It was in the Reach Sector where the divide was the greatest between highborn and smallfolk first, and between Knights and Lords second. The rest of Westeros was anything but a system of equality but it was near the Mander Rift that the Noble families believed themselves the masters of the stars and above the rest of the mortals.

Needless to say, the next years were going to be a very nasty surprise for them.

That said Varys was not surprised that Lantion Lannister and Monford Velaryon nodded in approval, followed by a cautious Lord Whent. All of them were born with a golden spoon in the mouth and had never known true hunger and thirst in their lives.

"Who are the next claimants?" asked Aron Santagar, who for once had abandoned the lecture of the documents in front of him and looked genuinely interested.

"The children of the union between Lord Walder Frey and Lady Bethany Rosby," Varys answered, feigning to not notice the looks of distaste emerging on the visages of his interlocutors. "The Lady was Lord Gyles' sister and died giving birth during the Usurper's Rebellion but she had five children who survived their first years..."

"The Starks botched the job..." whispered evilly the High Admiral between his teeth.

"...Two died of various illnesses," also known as murders, Emmon Frey had succeeded his father after Lord Eddard Stark removed the head of Lord Walder, and the husband of Lord Tywin's Lannister sister was not fond of the relatives he had inherited. "But there are still three alive, two boys and one girl. Their names are Perwyn, Olyvar and Roslin, according to my little birds."

"So this...Perwyn is the eldest and has the best claim?" There was no condemnation in the Master of Coin's voice, just interest. Varys could almost see the reasoning in the bright green eyes. The Lannisters were linked to the Freys and in one move could ensure the Lord of the Twins was deeper in their debt as well as boosting their influence in the Crown Sector.

"Yes, though it is Ser Perwyn Frey. The young man has been recently knighted I'm told."

It would be the solution of facility and wisdom in one. Perwyn had been a ward in the Saltpans System and by his agents' reports an intelligent young lad, unlike the Crown Prince and the majority of the golden youth drinking themselves to their deaths in the scandalous establishments of King's Landing. Plus he had been more or less ignored by the powerful blocks and had no enemies in the Sector.

Pycelle caressed his beard thoughtfully before nodding slowly.

"I will need to consult the genealogic tree of House Rosby, but it looks like Ser Perwyn Frey might be the Lord the Rosby System needs." And with Lantion Lannister showing his agreement, this was the Lannister block of the Small Council who had given its assent.

And two seconds later, unsurprisingly, the first voice of dissent was heard.

"Out of the question!" The Blackfyre descendant had expected Tommen Costayne or Monford Velaryon to express loudly their objections first, but it was the vocal chords of Lord Walter Whent from where the outburst had come. "House Langward and House Buckwell have the best claims to the Rosby Lordship!"

"How?" When Ser Alliser Thorne was openly incredulous, it was a either a very good or a very bad sign. Varys had a guess which was the correct choice here. "The two Noble Houses in question have not married with House Rosby in the last five generations unless there was a marriage I wasn't aware. And Lord Gyles hated Lord Langward's guts!"

One of the most feared men of the Crown Sector fixed the Hand of the King with a suspicious glare.

"This is an attempt from the Crown Prince to give some of his friends the titles they absolutely don't deserve, am I wrong?"

"Of course not!" But the breathing and the transpiration of Walter Whent were so loud Varys and the rest of the men knew within the second this was a lie and a poor one.

The Master of Ships sniggered loudly before adopting a more serious expression when the eyes of the Lord of Harrenhal turned in his direction.

"It is House Stokeworth which should be given the Lordship," the silver-haired Lord told them. "A cousin of Lady Tanda's was Lord Gyles' second wife and no one can doubt the friendship between the two Houses and their loyalty to the Throne."

Their loyalty Varys could very well believe. Lady Tada Stokeworth and her husband the former Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks Manly Stokeworth were so dumb the very thought of betraying the Targaryens would never find its way to their ears. They were also utterly incompetent when something more complicated than lacing their shoes was demanded.

"I disagree," countered the Master of Laws. "Rose Transports and Oldtown Unlimited have invested a lot of money to increase the agricultural production of the Rosby lands post-rebellion. Lord Leighton and Lord Mace will not accept a Lord unfriendly to the Reach Sector's interests and Lord and Lady Stokeworth have proven they can't be trusted with their loans."

Oh, and the economic card now was in play. In all his years as Master of Whisperers, Varys could honestly admit no one had tried to use it before in a Noble House's succession.

"And who is your preferred candidate?" The secret Blackfyre demanded, honestly curious which name would be proposed.

"Why, a son of House Chelsted, of course." The Lord of House Costayne smiled. "Lord Gyles' first wife was of this House and this union should be taken into consideration, no?"

Varys felt a very cold shiver in his bones. Oh yes, what a formidable idea. Since Aerys had roasted the previous Lord like a pig in a pyre of wildfire, none of their members had graced the court and King's Landing with their presence. Their forces had not participated in the smallest military exercise in the last sixteen years and the taxes they paid were about half of the standard for their wealth.

But the new Lady Chelsted was a Sloane or a Stackhouse, and thus a Reacher...by the Gods and Goddesses of this Quadrant, Varys really hoped this wasn't the sole reason Costayne had chosen this House.

"Just because you have sold a few tractors and combine harvesters to House Rosby doesn't mean you have the right to dictate their succession," told Jaremy Rykker in a belligerent tone. "This is the Crown Sector, and Crown laws must apply. We will not bow to Mace Tyrell's edicts."

The assertion was accompanied by a vigorous strike of his fist against the table. By the Seven, this had to hurt.

"You speak of laws and customs proudly," laughed Tommen Costayne. "But when the moment will come, you will be the first to push for one of your siblings to replace Lord Gyles."

Varys raised his hands in appeasement but it was too late.

"I suppose you know what you're speaking about, since you claimed your Lordship like this." The fists of the commander of the Goldcloaks were tightened and his face was turning a nice red.

"Oh, because your loyalty is unshakeable? I remember you and three others Generals stabbed Lord Stokeworth in the back when the time came to explain who was at fault for Downfall."

"If you lose nuclear bombs in your custody I will question your competence too..."

And then the very uncivil debate between the Lord Commander and his –nominal- superior the Master of Laws was just not limited to the two of them.

"I don't think I feel very safe with the two of you in charge of our security at King's Landing," remarked Baelish.

"The capital is not one of your whorehouses, Littlefinger!"

"Could have fooled me..."

"The Crown Lords will not tolerate vultures of your kind!"

"Take that back or your loans will increase by five hundred percent!"

Varys sighed and tried not to show his annoyance as the Master of Assassins exited the room without a noise and the rest of the Small Council renewed the verbal hostilities. Every time they met in the last three or four months it had been like this. The Masters and Lords of the Council could not spend ten minutes together without provoking a large dispute.

"You are growing strong at the expense of every other Sector!"

Pycelle and he had discussed it four or five times around a bottle of the Arbor. They were the last two councillors of King Aerys. They were not fond of the pyromaniac madman their King had become after the Defiance of Duskendale. But you had to admit, with or without Tywin Lannister as his Hand, there had never been much debate where the power was to be found at King's Landing during that era.

"I will not tolerate these words from a man who had built his fortune stealing a third of the River Sector's gold!"

Now the realm was leaderless. Rhaegar Targaryen and Walter Whent were both hilariously ineffective in their duties. The two Lord Paramount who could have solved this deadlock behind the scenes, Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell, were advancing their pawns to put their blood on the Iron Throne. The others powerful factions had rebellions or insurrections in mind.

"Stop building ridiculous super-battleships and maybe someone will take you seriously!"

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the traitorous Master of Whisperers, the person who helped sowing confusion in the loyalists' ranks. Instead, he had exhausted himself the last two decades preserving something of the old Seven Sectors. The Gods and Demons must laugh at the irony.

"I will listen to your advice when you stop painting your yachts in gold!"

Well it was time to end this disaster. Rhaenyra was ready to take her throne and must have now by this time won her first skirmishes against the Tyroshi fleets. Several Tigers of the Old Blood had already agreed to support her and Strickland was slowly abandoning his neutral stance. They were about as ready as they could be...and anyway Westeros would not wait any longer.

He rose from his seat, abandoning his seat and the screams of Monford Velaryon insulting Lantion Lannister. The priceless carpets covering the ground ensured his departure would be unremarked by the main parties long after he was gone.

As he marched in one of the corridors decorated by tapestries illustrating the Conquest of Aegon the Conqueror, Varys smiled and this time it was a sincere expression. In a few months, his fellow councillors were going to suffer tragic accidents...dolorous and tragic accidents. Once upon a time, he would have spared them but their greed and their selfishness deserved only painful deaths.

In the end, House Targaryen and those supporting it were vanquished before the first shot was fired...and the Blackfyres were not at fault.

* * *

 **Eddard Stark, 03.07.300AAC, Winterfell System**

It seemed an eternity ago that Robert had boasted of being able to slay a dragon.

Of course they had been both quite drunk that day. So had been Elbert, Denys and many Vale teenagers. In hindsight, they had been anything but careful. An excursion in the wild and high mountains of the Lance Mountains could be extremely dangerous, and the risks increased a lot when all the participants had drunk the equivalent of a good tavern's reserves in alcohol.

It had been a better time. Or maybe it was his memories and the innocence of a teenager. The kingdom was at peace, there was no storm on the horizon and the biggest threats came from Lord Jon Arryn's mouth when he saw the results of their pranks and joyful celebrations.

They had all said quite a few things that should never be repeated in polite company. But for one reason or another, the 'dragon slayer' had stayed in his mind while so many other things were forgotten.

One thing was sure, Robert had been wrong. The former ward of Lord Arryn didn't see a way a single man could slay a beast like this.

To be honest, he didn't see a way a conventional army could slay a dragon without orbital support.

The immense carcass of the ice dragon was in the small valley before his eyes while he observed the monster surrounded by his guards. It was extremely humbling to see a huge creature like this...not to mention terrifying. The Northern Sector had its fair share of super-predators; Howland had showed him some of the lizard-lions his family and friends had hunted for sport in the last century and some skeletons were gigantic.

They were nothing compared to an ice dragon, and he included the pack of giant direwolves circling around them in the comparison.

The legendary flying creature was simply too big, too awe-inspiring. The vast wings had been shot, pierced and crushed. There were three massive holes in the throat of the best. Every part from tail to the maw looked to have received a hellish punishment. There were likely tens of thousands of wounds on this reptilian corpse. And despite this, the dread aura inspired by the dragon remained. Several scouts had despaired without any reason, persuaded the dragon was going to regain its consciousness and devour them all. It was pure non-sense...and yet. There was something agitating every man, woman and children's thoughts. It was something dark, as if the dragon's death had left an imprint of the soul on the white snow. Perhaps, it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything. One thing was sure: this ship of the line-sized monster was forcing him to re-evaluate a lot of things by its very existence. The old legends had mentioned ice dragons at one time or another, but if the Others had waited generations in order to have hundreds of these space-faring weapons, then the North and the rest of Westeros were in deep trouble.

One just needed to look at the size of the fangs and claws to know where man was in the food chain compared to the dragons. And there was the ice breath...

"The warship the dragon fought was not one of ours," he didn't make it a question. No human starship had ever been built in the wood they had found the debris of.

"No, Lord Stark," replied one of the Green Priests he had brought with him. The dark green robe and the burning anvil insignia worn over the winter suit told the Master of Winterfell the man was one of the followers of the Old God Nantosueltos, deity of fires, engineering and creation. These Green Priests were rather famous – or infamous depending who you asked – for their ability to create runic blades. These weapons had obviously not the sharpness and the intrinsic supernatural abilities of Valyrian steel, but unlike these priceless swords, the secret of fabrication had not been lost. Runic weapons were of course of little utility against a human opponent, as House Royce and many First Men armies could vigorously testify. But against the dead and other magical abominations gathering in the shadows, they would be of prime importance.

"I suspect the dragon was fighting one or more of the Children of the Forests' warships. We will get no survivors to get more precise information; the dragon has made too much damage."

"It does make sense, my Lord," said Major-General Jory Cassel. "The old legends agree the Children and the creatures of the frost are deep enemies."

A smile came to Eddard's lips. It was somewhat amusing how his men were dancing around the word 'Others' since the dragon had crashed in this far-removed and frozen land over a day ago.

"You can send your men inspect the carcass," the Lord Paramount of the North commanded the Green Priests and the detachment of his guard he had chosen for the duty. "Take all precautions you deem necessary. Every danger may not have died with the beast."

A forest of salutes was made and then the Northern soldiers and priests descended the slope. Looking at the four hundred-strong column, Lord Eddard Stark wished there was more Green Priests among them...only one in eight were magical soldiers here, the rest were elite soldiers. Now, fifty Green Priests was a big number, especially when their numbers had been so reduced over the centuries until his father's rule. They were also numerous training sessions, recruiting operations and deployments to do outside the Winterfell System. But these were just fifty men and women...and while they were far more powerful than a man in battle-armour, they died like everyone if they received a tank shell on top of their heads. There was also too little of the war-experts followers of Taranos to his liking.

"We are rearming as fast as we can, but we forgot so many things," he whispered.

"We have the proof in front of us these dragons are anything but invincible, my Lord."

Jory had clearly decided to be the voice of optimism and cheerfulness today.

"You have a point, but if there are too many of these monsters to support our enemies, the ice dragons don't need to be invincible. Their masters just need enough of them to bury us in a storm of ice and death. This thing is bigger than our new ships of the line and I must assume it is as dangerous as well."

He would order numerous simulations to be made to be sure, but he had the feeling close-quarter space actions had just become a tactical impossibility. Northern warships would have to rely on their new missiles to outrange the breath of a dragon and never present a coherent target.

It was the first sight of the Enemy and their doctrine had already to be modified. For the North's sake, Eddard hoped the ice creatures had not too many of these surprises waiting for them in the cold depths of the Void.

Abandoning the watching of the ice dragon's corpse, he pivoted to observe the nearby dark woods and frozen plains...and sighed.

"Remind me, Jory. Why did I think bringing my daughters here was such a good idea?"

"I have no idea, my Lord," replied with a modicum of fake virtuousness his Cassel subordinate.

The direwolves' pack had largely retreated out of view when the Stark detachment had landed on the planet. It had not surprised him a lot; the huge predators were wild animals and they hadn't seen by a single human in a few centuries. There had been paw prints, furs remnants, corpses left behind, but living wolves had almost entered the realm of tales and legends.

There was a large exception. Nearly two meter-tall, grey-furred, the length of an average air-car and in all likelihood the weight to match the vehicle, a young direwolf had decided this was clearly the day of hugging and caresses. It had begun with salted meat thrown by Arya and Joanna, had continued with Sansa caressing the heavy fur on the animal's back and rapidly gone downhill from there.

As long as his daughters and sons continued to feed the glutton, the direwolf didn't seem to mind the photos and the caresses. In fact, the symbol of House Stark seemed to actively encourage it. Under his eyes, the direwolf went on his back, clearly wishing for more attention to be lavished on its belly. Since everyone obliged, the direwolf wasn't disappointed and growled sonorously in satisfaction.

As he marched back to his family, the question he had half-expected for several hours came from Arya.

"Dad, can we keep him?"

"Arya, a direwolf is not a pet you can keep around like this." He tried to keep his tone stern. Last year he had said tentatively yes for a cat and before he knew what had happened, every member of House Stark wanted a pet. If he said yes to a direwolf...well, the dire consequences did not bear thinking about.

"Are you sure?" asked Baela. The enormous tongue of the young direwolf went out salivating, begging for another meat piece which was promptly granted and swallowed in less time it took to say it.

"Direwolves are not pets," he repeated with what he hoped to be an infinite patiently expression. "House Stark sons and daughters have more important duties to come and besides, these animals are far too big for anything but our largest transport shuttles and warships. They will never fit in corridors, rooms, bridges or weapon control stations. This one is just growing, and it is already the size of a family vehicle. It would never be practical to take one with us. And the direwolves are wild, no matter how nice they seem at first glance. Try to take him away from his pack, and they will be far less accommodating."

"Ah, but I wanted Dragon's Doom to eat the Kingsguards and their master!" said Joanna in a disappointed pout.

"Dragon's Doom?" He could not help but ask while raising his eyebrows.

"He and his pack killed a dragon, the name is deserved!" defended vehemently the daughter he had with Ashara.

But apparently the decision wasn't unanimous in the audience. A loud debate started on the spot.

"I think Great Fang was a better name..."

"We should call him Wind of Terror!"

"Have you seen this magnificent fur? I think we should call him Grey Wind!"

"No, Shaggywolf!"

Catelyn gave him a heartbreaking look, the kind pleading him to do something and bring some measure of sanity to this humorous situation. A few metres away from their children, his wife was talking with two Priestesses of Abnobia, the Old Goddess of nature, earth and forests. The Lord of Winterfell nodded negatively in answer. He considered himself a fairly good judge when a battle was lost, and he was not going to stop his children from their 'direwolf hugging-time'.

Under the grey sky, the Lord Paramount of the North watched his surroundings. There were five or six direwolves watching him back in the distance. Unlike their younger pack member, they did not seem in a hurry to take the meat and the caresses. They were also bigger and older. After instructing the guards to maintain some vigilance, he abandoned his contemplation to see what the force examining the dragon had found.

On top of the hill, Eddard was free to marvel at the dragon's size once more. The direwolves had killed the dragon, yes but they had not eaten it, they had just given the last strike. Maybe there were analogies to be drawn with the current state of Westeros.

Now that he thought about it, the presence of the nearby great winter predators didn't explain how the ice dragon was looking so well- preserved. Runic Fang was a harsh world full of dangers and between the temperatures and the winds, it could rapidly transform itself in a very cold hell. But one thing it was not was a desert. Reports from the rare Marines and foresters venturing in these areas told of a very varied fauna and flora, with plenty of carnivorous animals to feed on the corpses of the fallen.

Either the meat of dragon was naturally indigestible, or there was something far more sinister at work there. New reports came to his ears, interrupting these thoughts. The size of the dragon was confirmed. From muzzle to tail, the ice beast was 2028 metres long. Eddard wasn't a specialist in dragonology. There must not be a lot of people in the North who did given that the species had been thought extinct until this week. Moreover, the North had never been friends with dragonriders or their trusted allies. If the Blacks had wanted an alliance with Lord Cregan during the Dance, it was because they were getting desperate and had many enemies in the South to defeat.

Still, there were information data-banks left of these ancient times, precise and accurate for his men to conclude this ice dragon – temporarily named Dawncrash and no, he didn't want to know how they had chosen this name – was roughly on par with the fearsome Caraxes in size. The ice dragon was according to the old records less nimble and swift, but compensated by more resistance in its scales and a more robust body allowing it to endure more punishment. Like with fire dragons on the other hand, the preliminary studies tentatively told him the wings remained a glaring weak point.

Giving back the data-slates and throwing new orders, he could at least see the good side of things. This dragon was a fearsome monster, and its loss was a severe blow to the Others' capabilities without the North having to pay tens of thousands men and women to kill it. It was also smaller than the Black Dread and Vhagar. It was not to say the Enemy had not monsters like this available but not unleashing them when this dragon was not sufficient was either overconfidence or stupidity.

"My Lord, we have found something!" shouted a captain in his holo-communicator.

It was not terribly useful, as Eddard could see it from where he was watching. Or to be more accurate, he was aware something had caused plenty of the Green Priests below to dig in the snow and begin to unearth an unknown object with their powers and a lot of precaution.

"So I see," he answered calmly.

Precautions which started to be more and more justified when they saw what they had discovered. It was a large wood container in piteous state and the moment the soldiers tired to move it by hand, the large cracks on the outer surface getting bigger. The Green priests told the men to stop their efforts, but the initial shock had been too much. In a large scraping noise, a sizeable wood panel completely fell apart and silence fell.

Eddard slowly descended the hill in the gathering's direction. A wood container meant this was something that had been stored with incredible defences aboard the Children's ship – it had to be to resist the spatial assault of an ice dragon and an orbital crash in good state.

His troops separated to let him pass, and soon he could see what was in the container. Despite having seen a lot of things and experienced a lot of surprises in his life – many of them unpleasant – he could not help but gasp when his mind realised what was inside.

The first object had an oval shape and looked like it was made up of sapphires and diamonds. He had any doubt any jeweller would cut one hand to possess this stone...except it wasn't a stone, wasn't it? Eddard had consulted some of the descriptions from two centuries ago, and this 'stone' could only be one thing.

"It is a dragon egg, isn't it?" He asked to the leading Green Priest. The grey-bearded man answering to the name Bur nodded with a dark expression.

"And a big one, my Lord," The black eyes of the Taranos-sworn Priest contemplated the egg for a few seconds before speaking again. "My colleagues and I will have to study the runes for a while, but I would not be surprised if the Children didn't use the egg to...stabilise everything in the container and stop the Others from localising their ship."

"Clearly it wasn't enough."

"Clearly not," replied Bur. "I would advise not to touch anything. The egg is imbued with an incredible quantity of magical energy and it is nothing compared to the sword."

Because of course the second object had to be more dangerous. Like Bur had said, it was a blade though a glance was sufficient to know it hadn't been forged by human hands. In size terms, it was longer than Ice but far narrower in width. The hilt was in a shining silver-like material hurting his eyes and the metal - or whatever the Enemy used as substitute - was pale blue and so perfect it looked like a mirror.

It was an Other's sword. No, it was Her Sword, majuscules necessary.

"The Sword of Frost..."

A spark of blue sparkled at the point of the blade while he examined it.

 _He sees a world in flames. The warships are bombarding this world to oblivion. Towers are collapsing, fortresses are torn apart in monumental explosions and vast cities are burning under a black sky._

 _He sees an army advancing, hundreds of thousands, no millions of battle-armours, tanks and artillery. He sees their weapons crush their enemies and create a mountain of broken gold equipment. Lakes of blood are created by the quantity of Gold Fists and Goldcloaks bleeding on hundreds of battlefields._

 _He sees King's Landing and the Red Keep under siege, their feeble forces routed and in disarray. A battlecruiser in orbit tries to enter the upper atmosphere to provide some support but the warship is torn apart by impossible air-batteries._

 _He sees himself, leading uncountable Legions to victory. Thousands of Crown soldiers died under each of his strikes. A cruel smile is on his lips and his soldiers roar in triumph, desperate for more carnage and blood, a fitting end for three centuries of humiliation._

" _Robert was weak! Robert had the galaxy in his hands but he hesitated and he died! We will not fail! We are not weak like him! In this day I promise you victory...and we will kill all our enemies, no matter where they hide!"_

 _The armies shout in joy and throw themselves against the last citadel, eager to finish the last bastion of resistance..._

He shook his head in repulsion and stopped gazing at the sword. In fact, he stopped looking at the container. What the hell had this been a vision? No, it had felt more like...a promise. Like this thing had expected him to grab it and wield it to battle.

"This is Her Sword, isn't it?"

"It might be..." There was not much doubt in the Green Priest's tone. "We lack good descriptions of this sword for obvious reasons."

Yes, eight thousand years and the fact most people who saw the blade died in the next instants...it tended to leave patchy records.

"But yes, this weapon is likely to be Frostbringer, the Night's Queen sword."

Many men and women shivered in unease around him. Old tales or not, there were artefacts and weapons that had gained such a reputation they were more legend than reality. The name which had just been just uttered definitely belonged to this category.

"Extract the sword and the egg from the container. Separate them, and make sure no living soul is in the vicinity of this evil sword for more than a minute. Hide it the fastest you can with your abilities."

"My Lord," replied Bur in a murmur. "I don't know if we will be able to hide well the sword against the abominations seeking it. The ice dragon is proof the monsters will stop at nothing to claim it back and we are not the equals of the Children. It is highly possible the Others know already the Sword is here in the Winterfell System."

"I see."

He would have loved to rage and scream but this wasn't his way. The galaxy wasn't going to change its fundamental rules just because he howled in fury. Instead he suppressed his anger and showed his men the shadow of a smile.

"Well, if they know where it is, they're welcome to come and challenge us to recover it."

A sonorous cheer mounted from the four hundred-plus formation. Northerners always loved to ignore the odds and beat the enemy with them, so he knew this declaration was going to be loved and known from Last Hearth to White Harbor by the end of the month.

"We will take back the ice dragon egg to Winterfell. Make the necessary arrangements, Jory."

"Is it wise, my Lord?" The question from the Major-General as they walked away and began a slow progression in the snow was annoying and too slow to his taste. At least they were away from this damned sword. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the air seemed far lighter each step they took away from this relic. Judging by how the Northern warriors around him were in a hurry to follow him and imitate his move, there was some sorcery at play here.

"It is not wise. But if the Dance of Dragons proved something, it was that dragons were the best dragons to kill other dragons."

"There's nothing to support that there are more ice dragons out there," replied cautiously Jory.

Eddard shook his head. It was not the correct reasoning. Dragons, fire or ice, were likely taking years to grow up. If the Others had fully grown dragons, the North would have to imagine new tactics to kill them. Sending a dog or even a direwolf-sized creature against a ship of the line-long monster was not the recipe of a successful strategy.

"No, using an ice dragon against demons who have certainly trained for hundreds of years with them is not what I have in mind. I was more referring to the moves of certain agents buying petrified eggs on the other side of the Narrow Void."

"They failed time and time again this last century to hatch something living and not deformed."

There was no question who the 'they' referred to. Half of the known galaxy must have heard of the disastrous attempts of the Targaryens since the reign of the Dragonsbane.

"And I pray the Old Gods the Rapist's plans will fail like the rest. But I must ensure there are counters in place. There will be no Second Conquest, not while I live. And now, do not tell a word of this to my children. They don't need to know of the two artefacts before we have the full report; we may need to break the egg and the sword before the end of the month."

"What's the worst that could happen?"

The Lord of Winterfell had the fierce temptation of shooting the young idiot who had babbled this stupidity. Andal or First Men, Rhoynar of Ironborn, there were things you just didn't say because the universe was always listening.

And once more, this occasion was no different.

Once they were at the top of the hill, Eddard saw Arya running straight towards them. And yes, there was a little grey fur ball in her arms that could only be a newly-born direwolf.

"Dad! This is Nymeria and she's mine!"

There were days like this he really hated being the Lord Paramount of the North and a father. Maybe Benjen had had the right idea joining the Night's Watch...

* * *

 **Shiera Targaryen, 05.07.300AAC, King's Landing System**

There were proper hours to have a family meeting and it was not fifteen minutes before midnight. If a councillor or one of her tutors had sent a messenger at this hour, Shiera would have been more than happy to explain to them what she thought of their horrid schedules. But the guard charged to deliver the information had not come from them. It had come from a far higher authority, one which didn't care for the problems it caused. Fortunately, when the summon came she was returning from her late piano lesson. This time at least, she would not be woken up because the King desired to speak with his children and could not be bothered to wait until sunrise.

The young Princess still thought this was not an acceptable hour to have a familial meeting or any type of meeting at all. She was thirteen years old and Daeron walking right behind her was nine. Tomorrow morning, they had to attend a conference with Guild Masters and senior officials, followed by more lessons and a quick presentation to the court for some protocol nonsense. The Seven only knew how tired she was going to be, and Daeron was going to be in a worse state, since unlike her he had been sleeping when their genitor summoned them. Plus they had to walk somewhere around two kilometres between their bedrooms and Queen Myriah's ballroom in spite of taking a multitude of highly-guarded elevators to get where the meeting was convened.

The section they had reached was silent and almost empty at this hour. They were in the depths of Maegor's Holdfast, an underground fortress hundreds of meters under the main fortress where the Iron Throne was located. A few guards and lone servants could be seen doing their nightly work, bowing when Shiera and her brother came into view, before returning to their long and tedious duties.

They took a last elevator, and the decoration on the walls and the doors took a very Dornish air. It was a part of the Red Keep King Daeron II had specifically built for his wife, according to her tutors and the maesters of the court. While she had visited six or seven times before, Shiera had believed it abandoned it after the death of Princess Elia Martell. Obviously this was no longer true.

Before the last intersection, Shiera adjusted her golden dress and looked at her younger brother, trying to see if his clothes needed a last-minute touch. To her relief, it wasn't necessary. The red-gold cloak and the red tunic were looking good on him, and despite the exhaustion Daeron was showing a good figure.

"Ready?" She asked.

"Ready," answered her brother and there was a resignation in his voice that shouldn't be present. Alas, it was. As far as they could remember, family meetings were rarely pleasant affairs and there was little chance this one would be an exception.

They moved at a slow and dignified pace on the vermillion carpet, tapestries on the right and the left detailing the defeat of the First Blackfyre Rebellion. In front of them eight soldiers in black battle-armour with the red dragon on their chest raised their vibro-halberd in salute before forming a guard of honour.

The large doors of the ballroom, decorated with images of King Daeron II and his wife, opened without the usual rumbling before closing once again when they set a foot inside.

Six massive crystal lustrums were illuminating the ballroom built by Queen Myriah. As far as Shiera could see, these were the only things left of the original decoration. Months before, the dancing room had been moderately but tastefully decorated with an oasis theme. Several paintings of famous Dornish painters had been on the walls, the ceiling had represented a dune landscape and there had been several emblems of the dragon surrounding the sun. The floor chosen by the Martell Queen had been a rare and hellishly expensive wood of her home kingdom, polished with an oil specially ordered from the Free Planet of Tyrosh.

Someone had completely changed the decoration and the young Targaryen Princess had a very good idea who was responsible.

The small tables and alcoves supposed to surround the ancient dance floor had disappeared. In their place was a long and cold rectangular table in a black-red colour. The oasis paintings had been removed and scenes from the Battle of Ashford, the Triumph of Harrenhal and the Surrender of Storm's End could now be watched. The ceiling had been repainted with scenes of the First Conquest of Dorne, specifically the Conqueror on Balerion laying waste to castles, armies and fields. The Dornish wood may be still there under her feet for all she knew, but the ballroom had now a new carpet with mysterious symbols on it. In the background a harsh and loud music with drums and angry musical notes were heard.

Truly, if Dornish men and women had a chance to look at this, they would have even more reason to hate the King. Not that they needed more, really.

Daeron and she were not the first invitees to arrive. On the left side of the table, a silver-haired man in dark blue and gold attire was seated.

"Uncle Viserys," She saluted with a large bow. The Prince of Summerhall was one of the few royals her brother and she had no great enmity against and it didn't cost a lot to be polite. Their 'uncle' nodded back almost thoughtlessly, his eyes in the vague and his thoughts certainly far from here.

They sat on the comfortable great chairs prepared for them – the furniture had been decorated with their personal banners: Shiera's seat had two red dragons on gold engraved on top of it and Daeron's had three gold dragons on red.

Once it was done, they waited without a word, sipping a few glasses of cold water already present on the table. It was better to not remark out loud how far they were from the supra-enormous-abominable throne at the other end of the room. This affront to art and fashion must have cost the same price as a dozen of expensive air-cars, it was lavishly decorated and had hundreds of gemstones, but the final result appeared very 'new rich' and pretentious.

Judging by the frown on Viserys' face, the placements had not escaped him too. Daeron and she were facing each other, the furthest away from the throne. Then on her right was Visenya's seat, the silver dragon on black being eminently recognisable. After that came Viserys' seat and the only two seats remaining until the throne had to be for Joffrey and Aegon, respectively.

Just like this, the King of Westeros had informed them how they stood in his mind. It was so enjoyable to feel loved...but what could you expect from a tyrant who had imprisoned their mother in the Maidenvault for nearly an entire decade?

A cavalcade resonated in the corridors and the ballroom doors opened brusquely. Shiera prepared to stand if it was their genitor deciding to grace them of his disgusting presence but it was their half-sister who entered in impressive long strides.

"I am not the last one," commented soberly the grey-eyed Princess, her silver hairs tightened in a ponytail. "Good."

Prince Viserys and the two children of Cersei Targaryen born Lannister had taken the time change their clothes, but the seventeen year-old young woman had clearly not judged it worth the effort. Visenya was wearing a black starfighter pilot's suit, one which did absolutely nothing to hide her athletic body.

Despite herself, Shiera felt a tinge of jealousy. Visenya had a body to die for, she was tall, muscled and her breasts were rather well-proportioned...and for the moment Shiera was remaining flat and short.

"I see you and your squadron are still working on your new starfighters," commented their 'uncle' as Visenya ruffled Daeron's hairs first before seating at her place like she was on a couch instead of a chair.

"We are not 'working' on our new starfighters, Admiral." The correction was made in a tone which was not really polite or even respectful. "We are rebuilding them because some greedy shareholders have filled their pockets with billions of dragons but couldn't be bothered to invent something working!"

Shiera wasn't able to recognise all the political and military implications of this, but by the way Prince Viserys was paling, they had to be huge. The Prince of Summerhall had not paled liked this in her presence since the King had informed his youngest sibling he was going to be wed to Lady Lynesse Hightower a few years ago.

"It was yesterday High Admiral Velaryon and his sycophants were telling me the Ultra-Stealth Joint Superiority Strike Starfighter program was completed and we had the most advanced single-seat ship-killer of Westeros. Are you saying they lied?"

"Oh, no we have the most advanced starfighter of the Seven Sectors," approved her half-sister with a disarming charm before adding the fatal condition. "When it works."

The expression Viserys had on his face was one alternating anger and resignation.

"The maintenance issues haven't been solved."

"Nothing has been solved," the black humour of Visenya was very funny, and Shiera laughed, though the subject had to be of critical importance. And then the unofficial testing pilot began to list the real problems. "The firm which built the reactors for these flyers deserves to be shot. Many critical components are breaking apart hundreds of hours before their life-limits. If you try to enter in the atmosphere of a planet with this starfighter, there a one in three chance you will become an impressive torch. The starfighter is not nimble enough for missile evasion. There are huge software problems randomly showing on the console. The ultra-stealth electronic devices and paint aren't functioning correctly and that was before agents of a certain foreign power stole its plans five years ago. The ejection module can kill you if you're not tall and heavy enough. The seat is terribly uncomfortable and is causing plenty of neck problems to my team. If the fuel we use is too warm, the coolant tubes can't handle the strain and there are...unfortunate effects. The air supply has several times been out of service and it was a miracle we didn't lose anyone. For every hour spent in space, the mechanics need a hundred to repair everything flawed. The electronic maintenance system is showing a lot of faults which don't exist but fail to mention the ones we have in front of our noses."

Visenya served herself a glass of water before continuing.

"I won't say this is the worst starfighter of Westeros...but I have really no idea which flyer has worse capacities than the 'Magma'. Let's forget a moment it can't use half of the weapons we have for starfighters in the Crown arsenal, these things have inferior performances to the very starfighters they are supposed to replace."

And after one large gulp, the conclusion was without appeal.

"These new starfighters are pieces of crap and nobody in my team can see how they can be transformed into worthy ship-killers."

"Surely you exaggerate, dear sister."

Every pair of eyes around the table turned towards the entrance, and sure enough, the Crown Prince was here, proud of the rude he interruption he had created.

Shiera supposed each of the Royal family's members had a style of walk and presentation. The Prince of Summerhall, for example, was in the 'modest but elegant' fashion and could be seen when he was at court marching at a vigorous pace in the corridors and the training grounds.

Aegon, by contrast, strutted in Queen Myriah's ballroom like one of these super-sized peacocks the core systems of the Reach were so renowned for. And the best part was that his attire really supported this point of view. For this meeting, Aegon had tried to wear a Crown military uniform before evidently deciding a customised version was better for him.

As a result, the original gold colour had been partially replaced by the traditional red and black of House Targaryen. The final result was reminiscent of one of these strange Qohorik animals called the zorse they had in the King's Landing royal zoo, but instead of black and white they had gold, red and black to observe tonight.

In all frankness, it was very difficult to take seriously their eldest half-sibling right now. A dozen large military medals shone just above where his heart should be. Shiera found it extremely pretentious and self-aggrandising. She had fought the same number of battles as Aegon...unless you counted waking up in the morning and ordering your servant to lace your shoes a triumph over adversity? There were large ribbons of rainbow colours around his wrists. Big golden epaulets were on the shoulders.

In Visenya's own words, this was perhaps not the most ridiculous military uniform of the galaxy...but unless presented with the counter-evidence, Shiera would consider it as such.

Passing near his half-sister, the Prince of Dragonstone tried to ruffle the silver hairs of Visenya but an iron grip prevented the contact.

"Oh, come on sister!" said the preferred child of the King. "I touched far more when we were in a bed together..."

"An error I will regret until my dying day," hissed between her teeth Visenya.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you..." Aegon was trying to look bored and amused, but there was desire and anger in his eyes.

"I knew you are supposed to marry the Tyrell girl, but surely you didn't expect me to tolerate another hundred whores in your bed?" If the Princess could have spit on the carpet without repercussions, she looked like she would have done so. "You took my virginity and humiliated afterwards. Be happy we're of the same blood, I would have thrown you out in space by the nearest airlock if you were not."

"What a pity," drawled a familiar voice. Shiera didn't turn her head, there was only one person left to come save their genitor. "The Seven Sectors and the Seven Heavens would have rejoiced together."

Joffrey had arrived. What was the expression again? Oh yes, let the games of idiocy begin.

To his credit, her eldest brother didn't strut like Aegon had in the transformed ballroom. Then again given the huge gold cloak he dragged laboriously behind him, it was quite likely he couldn't. The Prince of Cracklaw had decided to come in an exquisite white doublet, the only colour which was not white was the gold of the three-headed dragon on his chest and of course the cloak. The clothes were the new banners today for the meeting. Joffrey's personal sigil was the gold dragon on white and Aegon's was the red dragon on black. Obviously, it had its limits because Viserys, green dragon on black, had not shown any sign to be involved in this fashion race. Slowly and in a progression he tried to make as majestic as possible, her sibling went to his seat before seating himself like it was his throne.

Did she need to describe how during this interval Aegon and Joffrey glared at each other? Each time they met these days, it was a mummer's farce. One or the other threatened, insults were spoken, weapons were half-drawn and Houses of lesser standing saw their taxes increase for law-breaking which had not existed before the edict of the day.

Today the two were watching Visenya...and she didn't appear to like the attention. Shiera didn't blame her. Her brother frightened her at times, and he was her full brother. As for Aegon he frightened her, point. Without the Lannister guards sent by Casterly Rock, they would surely have received the same treatment the servants and lesser nobles received: beatings, public humiliations, money allowances disappearing in the unknown and far more.

"My bed is always open if you want, sister." Oh no, she didn't like this look on Joffrey's face at all.

"I thought you had already the Bracken whore to endure your pitiful performances," Aegon pale visage was getting colours – the red shade type – and his violet eyes were throwing murderous glare. "Or is it another of the River Ladies? I always forget which ugly creature accepts to follow you to your quarters? Truly..."

"You have no reason to strut, oh Admiral of the Narrow Void." Joffrey's tone was indicating very loudly what he thought about Aegon's title. "I have had only three lovers and unlike you, I'm not betrothed to someone. I am not the Prince the Master of Information spends his time crushing rumours about. The entire court knows you're a depraved monster and a symbol of decadence..."

"Now that's your jealousy speaking," interrupted him the Prince of Dragonstone. "Three lovers you said? I'm sure I will have only to discover the three ugliest women of the System and we will have the answer..."

"If I were you, I would be more afraid of the heresy accusations you will soon be accused of." Joffrey smirked. "The Faith is not appreciating at all your relationships with the Red Priestesses..."

Aegon did not look that afraid. In fact, he burst into laughter.

"Why should I be afraid of old men and powerless fools? Father has the Most Devout and the High Septon in his pockets! Any accusation or trial attempt will never see the light of day!"

A trumpet sounded in the distance and the vicious exchange ended abruptly. However, determined green eyes met complacent purple eyes, showing there would be a reckoning in the days to come. The Targaryens stood up around the table, preparing to greet the King of Westeros.

Another trumpet resonated and the Kingsguard came into view. Unusually, the seven of them were present tonight. It was a rare event. More often than not there were only three or four of them at the capital and those were the yes-men of the King.

One by one, they stood next to the huge throne. Like with the seats which had waited for them, their positions were not left to chance. Uncle Jaime, their mother's brother, was at the extreme left. They saw him rarely but he looked in good health...the King always sent him to far-away Systems in long inspections. The other Westerner, Ser Preston Greenfield, was on the extreme right. Next to her Lannister uncle was Ser Arys Oakheart, her preferred protector. Ser Preston had Ser Garth Hightower on his left. The Knight of Oldtown was standing like an emotionless statue. Closest to the King's seat on the left was Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold. Personally Shiera didn't see what courage and boldness there were to save a mad king from his own foolishness and guard another for a decade but it was just her. On the right was one of the damned souls of King Rhaegar, Ser Oswell Whent the Dark Bat. And barring the access in front of the throne, was of course the Lord Commander Arthur Dayne, barred from dozens of Systems and two entire Sectors because they dreamed to put his head on a pike.

And after this they waited. It did not take long, maybe ten seconds in all, but they all knew there was absolutely no reason the sovereign of Westeros could not have come immediately on their heels. As for his reasoning lying behind it...better not to think too much about it.

King Rhaegar, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Sectors, Kings of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar – though the latter two refused to obey his orders – Defender of the Faith, Shield of His People and Protector of the Realm appeared before them. With his silver hairs cut to perfection, his noble purple eyes and the silken red-black attire, the sovereign looked like a King.

But it was all he had.

Shiera was hardly around him during hours, but his moves were jerky and erratic. His behaviour was not better. Twice he stopped on his way to the throne, seizing watches and what looked to be tiny astronomy instruments, mumbled a few things unintelligible before walking a few steps and starting back.

It was...weird and a little creepy.

The ballroom was long and the King was not a fast man. It took several minutes for him to be seated on his ridiculous throne which shamed the work of the Conqueror by its very existence. The music which had been playing in their ears ceased and they sat in their large cushioned chairs.

"I have all summoned you here for you need to hear important news. I have studied the signs of the Stone of Ages and the cosmic storms..."

The next sentences were the worst gibberish she had heard in her life. She looked at Visenya and Viserys, and yes, they had the same lost expression. Joffrey was watching their genitor like one observed a mummer's play and Aegon was throwing not so discreetly glances at Visenya. Her little brother was fighting to stay awake. The Kingsguards were all harbouring stone-faced expressions. Probably they wondered how long it was going to be until the next assassination attempt and their service's end.

This insanity wasn't ending and did not make any sense. Could the man just have waited until after lunch tomorrow to utter this nonsense? This way Daeron and she could have taken a nap...

"...and the great conjunction is close. The portents are clear. Our family must be reunited for the union of my eldest son and his betrothed Lady Margaery Tyrell."

Shiera maintained an emotionless face. Surely their genitor wasn't that clueless and stupid. This year, House Targaryen was just united in their hate for each other – the only exception had to be Viserys' daughter Rhaella and the girl was one year-old. Apart from Daeron and mother, the only members she could tolerate were Viserys and Visenya – and for the Prince of Summerhall, it was only true if the Hightower's harpy wasn't in the vicinity. There was no need to bring more enemies to the battlefield.

"Viserys, you will go to Dorne with Ser Jaime and bring back my daughter Rhaenys."

The King...he was joking, right?

"The Dornish have sworn to kill every Targaryen who are not your eldest daughter, your Majesty," replied coldly the Prince of Summerhall, who was also failing to find the humour in these orders. "Ser Jaime will be escorted by my warships through the Stepstones, but he will have to go alone to Sunspear. The Martells only want to kill one Kingsguard so he should be fine."

Ser Arthur Dayne didn't move, but a very short grimace was all the Princes and Princesses needed to know the remark had found its target.

"Ah yes, yes. The call of the sands will turn twice for the moons and the rivers will flow black, I had almost forgotten."

Shiera dearly hoped the King wasn't sending messages like this to the Small Council...else she really pitied the councillors. The words were absolute nonsense.

"Joffrey, you will go to Braavos and tell the Braavosi Daenerys' stay in their capital is coming at an end. My youngest sister's presence is required at home."

"Your Majesty," like her and everyone except Aegon, no Targaryen was going to call Rhaegar 'Father'. "The fostering of Daenerys that was negotiated a decade ago is supposed to last two more years. Do we really want to annoy Braavos more than we already have?"

Joffrey's voice was very reasonable and his arguments were logical for once. Sadly, he had a default. He wasn't Aegon, who could order the beating of someone and be congratulated the next day. And he wasn't Viserys, who had a Stellar System and a fleet to support his actions.

The change in the King's expression was brutal.

"You will do as you're told!" shrieked Rhaegar Targaryen. "You will not defy the threads of fate and the outcome of the Song of Ice and Fire! I don't care if the Braavosi are offended. It is the fate of the galaxy which is at stake!"

There was no nobility in these traits, just madness. And for the first time, Shiera was happy her mother was in the Maidenvault, because the...thing in front of them would kill her if given the chance. He had already done it to two wives, no?

Joffrey lowered his head, apparently cowered by the royal fury. But she knew her brother. One of the King's supporters was going to pay for this tirade before the week was over.

"Visenya, you will go to Winterfell and bring back your twin sister."

The grey-eyed Targaryen applauded mockingly in an exaggerating slow fashion.

"And when they tell me to go to the Seven Hells and revolt, what will I do?"

This was a good question...her tutors had tried to brush off her questions on the subject, but it was obvious the Peace of Maidenpool terms had been violated and ignored hundreds of times. Presented like this, the Northern Sector was going to revolt and the loyalist coalition which had repulsed them before was gone.

"This will not happen," declared with righteousness the true son of Aerys II the Mad. "The blades will not be drawn until the great comet turns the Eye of Woe red and the devourer of the stars die under the pack's fangs."

"Of course, your Majesty. It is far from my intention to criticise your deep knowledge of prophecy."

Daeron snickered lightly and soon everyone around the table smiled or chuckled, knowing Visenya was making fun of the King. But Rhaegar apparently didn't know enough his daughter to recognise the sarcasm and nodded seriously.

"Good, Aegon my dear son you will go to Highgarden and present yourself to your future wife before bringing her back here for the festivities!"

The Crown Prince did not look that happy to be chosen for this travel-and-escort mission. Was it his imminent marriage or something else putting him in a sombre mood?

"Yes father, I will not fail you."

And with this that made four on four Targaryen who weren't happy at the destinations the King had chosen for them. Shiera thought that if she had been Queen, she could have done it a bit more diplomatically. It was not a secret Prince Viserys wanted to visit his sister but his brother had forbidden it countless times; this would have made him a good emissary to send to Braavos. Visenya could have been sent to the Reach; that way there would be no scandals and Mace Tyrell would try to charm her to his side. Joffrey could have been sent to the North via White Harbor; her eldest brother was trying to present himself as a friend of the Faith and knighthood plus he respected his oaths...not that he was giving a lot of them these days.

As for Aegon, she didn't know where to send him. Wherever he went, the Prince of Dragonstone was causing problems...

"Now let's speak about the marriages I have in mind for my children..."

Shiera suddenly had thoughts of kingslaying flooding her mind. When was someone going to kill that prophecy-lover?

* * *

 **Andrew Baratheon, 05.07.300AAC, Musgood Hall System**

Nearly a decade ago, Lord Corwin Musgood had received an extraordinary honour from the Crown. For his good and loyal services in the Rebellion, the Lord of the Musgood Hall System had been elevated to the dignity of Sentinel-General of the Lonely Light System.

Andrew was just thirteen and not really able to discern the subtleties of politics. But garrisoning this arid and inhospitable planet of twenty-five million souls did not look like a reward. It felt more like a punishment.

Stopping the Ironborn from rearming and patrolling endlessly in the Sunset Void in search of the last reavers who had survived the Greyjoy Rebellion was an exhausting affair for men and the starships. The disastrous state of their Sector's economy not helping, House Baratheon would without doubt have experienced hardships – in manpower and supplies - if they had been chosen for the role. But House Musgood had never been as powerful as House Baratheon and their navy was on the verge of collapse. Their only ship of the line was officially in overhaul since 296AAC, but unofficially there was not a lot of chance it would leave one day its space dock. The _Laurel of Glory_ had been one of the earliest hulls of the Storm's Wrath-class, and the lack of maintenance before Balon Greyjoy decided he was the greatest moron of Westeros had doomed the starship. Too old, commanded by a sub-experienced crew, the _Laurel of Glory_ had almost broken in half when it had jumped back home and had to be towed the last part of the journey.

Andrew's father had been clear that this slow death had not stopped with the flagship of House Musgood. The second most powerful warship of their House, an armoured cruiser, had been used as an orbital base around the Lonely Light because it was too dangerous to use its engines anymore. One of their two battlecruisers had come early two years ago and about nine more months would be necessary to give it another decade to its life-expectancy. Two out of their three heavy cruisers were in the shipyards waiting for spare parts that would not come without large sums of gold dragons. The rest of the light units were similar conditions.

All told, House Musgood and Lord Corwin had eight warships available: one battlecruiser, one heavy cruiser, one light cruiser, four scout cruiser and one light carrier with thirty starfighters operational. With the exception of the light cruiser, these hulls were all in the Iron Sector right now. The 'honour' bestowed by the Iron Throne was killing slowly but surely their navy. And yet Lord Musgood remained incredibly loyal to Jon Connington, the great and magnificent idiot everyone was supposed to call a Lord Paramount.

They were Lords of Noble Houses like that.

In the end, the stubbornness of Lord Corwin was making the happiness of House Baratheon. Many ship parts the Musgood Navy absolutely needed for its warships were made at Storm's End. Better, the near-total absence of mobile starships armed with a gun in their home system made it the perfect place to hold deals under the table. After all, if there was a place where the Master of Griffin's Roost wasn't going to search potential traitors, it was in a system belonging to one of his fiercest supporters.

Not that the Baratheon were traitors, perish the thought. Indeed, the Dragon's Breath-class scout cruiser _Velocity_ accelerating away from their battlecruiser had a perfect legitimate reason to be here. The Crownlanders were conducting a surprise inspection on a Storm warship, the latter performing routine anti-piracy patrols. There must have been dozen of similar patrols in the last couple of months and the majority were perfectly legitimate. Besides, the authorisations on the Crown's side had been signed by the Prince of Summerhall in his authority as Admiral of Dragonstone. It would take a very high-ranked Lord or Admiral to question publically these orders and so far everything Andrew had seen implied the Royal Headquarters of King's Landing could not find their boots without printed instructions. Leading a proper investigation was in all likelihood out of reach for their poor skulls.

In a matter of seconds, the scout cruiser became invisible to his eyes, and after three minutes, the tactical display of the _Relentless Storm_ was no longer able to display the position of the other warship.

Andrew breathed loudly. It was all the excitation they were going to have for the day, it seemed. It was not as boring as certain official visits their parents had imposed him, but it was not awe-inspiring either. One last glance at the stars on the other side of the window, and he turned his attention towards his eldest sister.

"What did the messenger came to propose, sister?"

Shireen raised her head from the pile of data-slates she was busy classifying. Her blue eyes were clear and did not look amused. Under the powerful lights of their quarters, there were faint lines remaining of the surgery which had been necessary to rebuild her visage after a disease had almost killed her when she was a child.

"Oh, the usual when it comes to Targaryen pretenders." His sister did not hide her disdain. "Removal of all the extra taxes and financial punishments the current King imposed us. Lord Jon Connington will be removed from his position of Lord Paramount and judged for the illegal activities he committed. House Baratheon will be reinstated in their place. Reparations will be paid for the prisoners of war they slaughtered or sent to the Wall seventeen years ago. The hostages and wards still in custody at King's Landing will be released. Subsidies will be handed to rebuild our forces and our static defences. We may be granted a few Reach Systems to occupy if we're reasonable."

Shireen adjusted her long black hairs and threw a dagger at the royal portrait which was supposed to be on every warship sworn to the Iron Throne. This time her attempt went directly in the middle of the target's chest.

"It is not very original, I agree." He took another dagger and threw it at the portrait, touching it in the left forearm. "I suppose Prince Viserys isn't going to give us the head of his rapist of a brother?"

A grin came to Shireen's lips.

"Unlike Prince Joffrey and Princess Rhaenys, the Prince of Summerhall is far less bloodthirsty when the future of King Rhaegar is discussed. I think he has exile or a soft imprisonment in mind."

"Awful." The monster had plunged the realm into bloody chaos and was doing his best not to reign, and they were supposed to treat him with dignity?

"Indeed," relied Shireen. "Of course, father will accept this message after an appropriate delay of reflexion."

"Like we did for the other pretenders?"

The third dagger pierced the head of the portrait, a perfect throw if there ever was one.

"Yes brother, it's time for the Targaryens to understand they don't have a monopoly on betrayal..."

* * *

 **Jon Arryn, 06.07.300AAC, The Eyrie System**

"One day Father, you will wake up and realise that your Sector fell apart while you were sleeping!"

His eldest son affirmation would have been a lot more impressive if this loud tirade had not ended in a monumental series of coughs. In his haste to contest his latest decisions, Robin had forgotten to take his medicine, apparently. The situation wasn't brilliant, but the sixteen year-old boy chose to worsen it by racing towards his mother waiting for him near the great blue doors.

Simply handing the medicine would have been enough, but his wife decided to hug him, help him dry the tears which were flowing and caress lengthily his dirty blonde hairs. Lysa Arryn born Tully was not breast-feeding Robin, but Jon had a feeling this was a very near thing. And during all this time, she was whispering in his ears. He was too far for his poor ears to hear the murmurs, but he could read on her lips and it gave something like: "It's not your fault...your father doesn't understand...I'm proud of you..."

It was absolutely pathetic.

Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale Sector, did not need to look at the elite guards dispersed thorough his dinner hall to know his son had just humiliated himself once more in front of the very soldiers he had to gain the respect of.

"Perhaps I should have named it Robert..." He grumbled to himself.

Had he struck his eldest son, insulted him or given him any other reason to complain, Jon could have accepted this display of weakness. But Robin had barged in the dinner hall while he was finishing his supper, and he could honestly say he had not shouted a word or pronounced a single offending word in the five minutes his son had spent here.

Perhaps giving him another name would have changed this fate. Then again, he was far from the only Lord to have accepted that 'Robert' was a name really unpopular these days. Eddard had disregarded it for his first-born, but then again no one had expected the opposite. Unfortunately, the Vale was far closer from the capital...

"We will speak again, Father..." Ah, the challenging voice was back. It could have almost forced a sliver of pride in his heart if Robin was not pressed against his mother's bosom and had tearful eyes.

And on this last promise, Robin and Lysa left the room. Once the massive doors were shut, he could hear two or three soldiers sniggering contemptuously. Vale soldiers were not stone-hearted, but this display of weakness was not what they expected from the Heir of the Vale.

"What did I do wrong with my son, Vardis?" He asked the Egen knight serving as the General of his personal guard.

In public, Ser Vardis Egen would never have uttered a word which could be construed as an insult against his Lord and House Arryn as a whole. In private and when the Lord of the Eyrie asked, it was a different thing.

"You should have separated him from his mother when he was five, my Lord," told him bluntly the warrior who had saved his life several times during the Rebellion. "The woman is a menace; she was always here to provide crutches when the boy should have stood on his two legs. She made him weak."

The last word was pronounced with the same tonality as a funeral eulogy. And the worst part was that Vardis was not exactly wrong. Jon felt his heart tighten in his chest. He should have done something but the very determination that had allowed him to crush his rebellious bannersmen in the early stages of the Rebellion had been non-existent this time.

"He was ill and I had not the courage to foster him in another House..." And now it was too late, he knew it very well. If he sent his eldest son to one of the Houses he trusted absolutely, Robin would not last two weeks before said Lord abandoned this hopeless task and sent him back home in disgrace. His son had just received the barebones of a military education and his physical performances were completely inadequate.

"You gave him the best treatment any man and woman could afford, my Lord. Your daughter Alysanne received the same care when she was young and she turned out fine."

Jon chuckled but the sound had no joy behind it. The underlying message given by Vardis words was not hard to understand. Both Robin and Alysanne had had the same health problems – that they had gotten from him and his Arryn blood – but one had been coddled by his mother while the other was not. It was not very had to guess which of his children had been fostered at Old Anchor. It also took no great amount of intelligence to realise which child between the two was ill-considered by the space and army forces of the Vale Sector. Granted his daughter was not and would never be a warrior, but Lord Mathos was showering her with praise when the subject was administrative and law-making duties.

Alysanne was fourteen and already a far better child than Robin had ever the possibility to become.

"And authorising him to go to King's Landing once was a dreadful mistake."

"And this travel to King's Landing was an awful blunder," confirmed the veteran General.

Sometimes, Jon cursed himself in the middle of the night from ever accepting. In other occasions, he comforted himself this had at least given him the confirmation Robin Arryn would never be a good Lord Paramount. Seven Hells, if the Lord of the Vale Sector wanted to be honest –not that he particularly wanted to but he had certain obligations – Robin had manifested glaring weaknesses that were absolutely unacceptable for a minor Noble House or a Knightly one, never mind the Heir of a Lord Paramount.

Robin was not only frequently ill, he was gullible. A few words from the Crown Prince – and by the Mother what sort of monster was waiting to mount on the Iron Throne – and he was easily swayed. House Grafton and their allies must not have believed their chance when their spies at court reported this. Yes, the Targaryens had fuelled a lot of money in secret to rebuild their crippled infrastructure and fleets, but as long as they had no ally in his House they knew they had to stay discreet and out of sight. But if they had the Heir of the Eyrie on their side...it was a game-changer indeed.

Jon Arryn fixed the plate in front of him. The meat had gone cold of course, and the mushrooms and the vegetables next to it looked incredibly indigestible for his poor stomach. Then again, it wasn't like the situation of the Sector he was supposed to rule was going to be better in the next months. There were Targaryen loyalists who would raise their banners and muster their armies instantly for the Crown Prince now that his eldest son was in admiration of Aegon Targaryen. On the other side, there were dozens of Noble and Masterly Houses which would remember the rebellion and join the Starks and the Mallisters for a new rebellion to kill the dragons.

Yes, indigestible described perfectly the situation he was facing. For a second or two, he felt jealous of Eddard. His former ward had a loving wife and children who were not bringing half of the problems his eldest was giving him. But the feeling disappeared as fast it had appeared. Eddard had deserved love after so much tragedies during the Rebellion, and it wasn't his fault the youngest Tully daughter was incompetent when it came to child-raising.

"If Robin sits on the Falcon Throne when I die, House Arryn will not survive ten months." It was the first time he found the courage to speak these words in public. It hurt, oh it hurt. And yet at the same time, it was strangely liberating.

"You are in good health, my Lord," remarked Vardis. "I stand by my earlier remarks, but you still have at least a good half-decade in your heart and bones. Robin will not become Lord of the Eyrie any time soon."

"Elbert and Denys," The two names of his previous Heirs resonated heavily in the deadly silent hall and Vardis paled. "Whether I like it or not, war can easily destroy a Great House when the cannons begin their litany of destruction."

A sign was made, and ten seconds later a servant rushed out from behind a tapestry and took back the plate back to the kitchens. Once she had disappeared, the Arryn Lord spoke again.

"I can't take any chances anymore. Too long I have waited and done my best to train a worthy Heir. The hour is late and war is almost at our gates again."

Except this time it would not be a simple act of madness and a crown of flowers destroying decades of peace. No, this time every Sector had reasons to hate their neighbours...it was going to be a bloodbath and the Vale would not be able to escape it.

"Tomorrow morning, I will send some of our most trusted captains to Strongsong, Runestone, Redfort and Old Anchor. Make the necessary preparations and keep it as secret possible."

The news of such a meeting would come out in the future, it was unavoidable. That said he was not going to make the task of the Crown spies easier. The agents believed themselves clever by infiltrating the not-so-loyal Tully delegations, well it was time for them to prove their salaries.

"Of course, my Lord," answered the Egen knight. "The 2nd flotilla of scout cruisers is almost due for a new patrol against the Rift Clans. I think we can arrange an early departure without arousing suspicion."

"Good, thank you Vardis," the commander of his guards bowed and then walked away, leaving him alone to ponder on the future of his House.

If only Denys Arryn was alive, he may not have been forced to marry after the Rebellion. If only Elbert had not been part of this doomed party at King's Landing. If only bad genes, plagues and awful misfortune had not decimated his cousins, nieces and relatives. But with 'ifs' it was Robert who would sit the Iron Throne, and Jon had a feeling the galaxy would be a far better place. You could hardly do worse than Rhaegar, at any rate!

The Master of the Vale yawned before throwing his pristine napkin on the table and pushing back his chair. The politics and the demons which came with it would have to wait another day. It was late and he was getting tired.

Before going to his bed however, he took a detour to the small marble sept near his quarters. He had never felt deeply faithful in the last two decades, the tides of destruction he had unleashed would haunt him until last breath. And there, Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale Sector and Warden of the East, prayed for a few more years of peace and the salvation of his family.

* * *

 **Ser Gerion Lannister, 07.07.300AAC, Volantis System**

For him and the rest of the surviving crew of the _Laughing Lion_ , they had felt that between their departure of Volantis and their return from the infernal depths of the Doom, five months had passed. As they had discovered to their horror, it had lasted far, far longer than that.

The Laughing Lion, deep space heavy cruiser of the Western Navy, had left the First Daughter of Valyria on 02.03.291AAC. Between the space crew, the soldiers of the 104th Regiment, the servants, the superior officers and the various scientists, there must have been somewhere three thousand and eight hundred people aboard. They had brought a lot of heavy weapons, four tanks and plenty of battle-armours to fight any conceivable threat.

The problem had been that the enemies they fought were neither human nor conventional. And their travel, supposed to last at most half a year before their autonomy reached their last reserves, had lasted far longer than that.

It was less than a day they were back in Volantis, and he was still trying to cope with how long they had been away from the rest of the galaxy's perspective. By the Westerosi calendar, it was the seventh day of the seventh month of the year of Grace 300 after the Conquest. In other words, they had remained nine years in the ruins of the Valyrian Freehold. Well, the survivors had. For the dead, the stay would be eternal.

Of the three thousand-plus men and women of the original crew, less than four hundred were still alive...and for many the definition of 'alive' had to be taken lightly. The fire demons had made a terrible carnage during the short amount of time they had been assaulting his warship. Half of the Westerners missed now a leg, an arm or more. Gerion himself had not lost a limb, but the scars on his visage, his chest and his back would remain with him until last breath.

He was one of the lucky survivors, yes. Of course, it was very mixed blessing. Whatever he did now, the visions of demons in this nightmarish realm would pursue him for the rest of his existence. He wasn't able to sleep anymore...the fire abominations were hunting him in his dreams.

 _We did not triumph this day. We just escaped and left the majority of the crew's souls in the claws of these monsters_.

And the escape had been so narrow the _Laughing Lion_ was going to be dismantled before the end of the month was out. The demonic invasion was over, but the traces of their passage had caused so much damage it would be suicidal to try to go back to Westeros with it. In fact, the last surviving engineer thought it was divine intervention which had saved them. There was only one fusion reactor operable, the different engine sections were red and black – red from the blood of the men who had sold their lives to defend them and black of the burned metal and bones.

Gerion emptied the rest of the bottle of wine while watching the vast space shipyards of Volantis in the distance. When he had seen them the first time, he had been stunned with incredulity, the man-made constructions appearing endless and invincible to his inexperienced eye. Now they were looking entirely too vulnerable once the Enemy had proven it could bring demons into the equation.

Loud footsteps echoed in the corridors. Gerion grimaced and posed the bottle on the table. He wanted to explode it against of the transparent bays, but he frankly ignored what the supernatural battle had done to their properties. Besides, he had lost his butler and all his servants he had brought in this desperate adventure so if some clean-up was needed, he would have to do it himself.

Tion too was dead. Many of the Lieutenants had died alongside his second in these desperate battles. It was not worth it. Nothing was worth all these deaths and Brightroar was no exception. But if what they had discovered on King Tommen's Last Stand could be trusted, they had a chance to prevent a cataclysmic disaster. The Seven knew if the King, the Small Council or his eldest brother were going to listen what looked to be the ramblings of madmen, but he would have to try.

He turned to see a man in a badly-mangled red battle-armour entering the ravaged bridge.

"Two men of the 104th Regiment are no more, my Lord," said Ayric Sarring in a dark tone. Gerion sighed. More deaths on his soul, men he had not been able to save in the end. He would pray these were the last to die before they returned to King's Landing, but his heart argued against it.

"Sit Lieutenant," the youngest brother of the Lord of Casterly Rock spoke – if Tywin was still alive but Gerion had a feeling the Great Lion would outlive him no matter what he did.

The last officer of the Western regiment obeyed with a lot of precaution, the seats available being mangled and about to collapse on their own. Gerion took a few seconds to observe him. Black hairs, black eyes and a few scars here and there, Lieutenant Ayric Sarring did not look like an extraordinary warrior. But Gerion had seen the videos recorded by the internal sensors who had survived the bloodbath. The veteran had fought his way through the armoury and several corridors to reach one of the greatest abominations and slaughter it in a one-sided duel with only two other soldiers to guard his back. Given that the path had been crawling with hell-spawn and no longer answering the law of physics, it was a feat worthy to enter the legends. No wonder the other survivors had given him the nickname 'Demon Killer'.

He was also the only warrior apart Gerion himself to have kept the Valyrian blade he had found in the remains of the corpses of the ancient Lannister army. The rest of the relics had disappeared with the bodies and the shuttles ejected into the Void.

"The rumour mill told me you have a chosen a name for your blade," he said, turning his attention to the sword sheathed on his back. Unlike Brightroar, this weapon was looking like war made alloy. The blade was a colour of pure darkness and the hilt was the shade of steel, with a single diamond for all decoration.

Ayric scoffed, and for once the ghost of a smile came to his lips.

"More like Preslan chose it, organised the vote behind my back and forced me to accept the result." The veteran of countless campaigns paused before breathing loudly in resignation. "I would not have personally chosen 'Demonsbane' as a name for my sword, but I've long learned resistance is futile in cases like that."

"There are worst names than this one, trust me." Gerion had a sudden urge to go and take back a bottle from his private reserve, but he had already drunk one bottle and it wasn't midday. "I have already said it in front of all the men, but Lannisters pay their debts and I will not come back on my word. Every man will be promoted three ranks and given the pay of twenty years of service once we reach back a Westerosi System."

The Father and the Mother knew they deserved it, though few would be in a state to enjoy a peaceful retirement considering how badly the demons had torn them apart.

"That's ...good to hear, my Lord."

The tone was cautious. It was not surprising, Tywin had screwed up Sarring and the survivors of Lightning Lion and Gerion had personally gone with them in the antechamber of the Seven Hells. There wasn't much of their loyalty to House Lannister.

"You are the senior officer of the regiment and have more than proved your fighting credentials. The 104th is yours...Colonel Sarring."

* * *

 **Euron Greyjoy, 07.07.300AAC, Nightfort System**

After centuries of absence, the Night's Watch had finally returned to the Nightfort in force.

Hundreds of shuttles were screaming their engines in the cold atmosphere, disgorging thousand troops on the frozen ground. Tanks motors and uncountable engines were rumbling, securing the perimeter. Despite the difficult conditions, work was already beginning on the foundations of the new fortifications.

It was all the more impressive when he knew a decade ago, the Order sworn to defend to the Wall would have been unable to make this kind of effort. By 290AAC, the population of the Gift had decreased to a meagre two hundred million people. Two hundred million and between the crippled, the mad, the cowards, the children, the women and the old crones, the true fighters were about a tenth of this number.

Ironically, the Night's Watch could thank his brother for his monumental failures. Balon's folly –also known as the Greyjoy Rebellion by those living in the galactic south – had destroyed the Iron Sector for the next generations but the Lord Commander had received nearly one million soldiers in a few months. Of course, not each of these Ironborn was happy to meditate their defeat on these desolate planets, and examples had to be made. By all accounts, the men of his Sector had to be in the eight hundred and fifty thousand now – he didn't count the 'reinforcements' the various crushed insurrections had provided five years ago.

Even this however would not have been sufficient if the Lords of the North had not decided to act. The Greyjoy recruits had come to the Wall with sometimes nothing but the clothes on their back. Willing to fulfil their oaths or not, the best soldiers could do nothing with this lack of equipment. Under the back apparatus allowing him to breathe correctly, Euron smirked. It was deeply ironic his defeat at the hands of this fucking Other bitch had convinced Winterfell and the Northern bannersmen to go on a partial war footing, but it was exactly what had happened. For the first time in untold history, defending the Wall was now an absolute priority. Oh yes, the irony was absolutely delicious.

Whereas the defences had been manned with lone imbeciles and rusted laser rifles before, multiple companies and field guns had taken their place. New fortresses were rising to the skies, protected by cutting-edged shields bought from the Braavosi Republic. Where before a wildling starfighter could have tranquilly flown over half of the Watch's defences without being fired in retaliation, dozens of anti-air batteries had been installed. Armouries which had waited dusty and empty for the best part of a millennium were suddenly rebuilt to welcome thousands of battle-armours Mark 2 and 3. The training grounds were trembling as tens thousands of men were running on them.

Not that those were the only contributions Lord Eddard Stark and his generals had made. Lord Rickard Karstark and several squadrons had been dispatched to help the beleaguered black warships. There were no ships of the line in this formation right now, but sixteen battlecruisers, sixteen escort carriers and their escorts were nothing to sneeze at. This was the newly creating Third Fleet and rumours were optimistic the new classes of capital warships and the new starfighters were on their way to here. At Castle Black, a new Fourth Host was gathered, already one million and two hundred thousand strong.

It was the most powerful armada the Northern Sector had mustered in the last century on the Gift, and it was just the beginning. King-Beyond-the-Wall or not, the wildlings were really not going to enjoy the welcoming party.

Euron raised his eyes to the sky and frowned. The Breach-in-the-Stars, which for millennia had been a blue-violet colour, was turning redder day after day. It had begun a couple of months ago and it was showing so far no sign of stopping. So close to the Gate of Woe, the fastest path to get in and out of this gigantic cosmic phenomenon, it was like half of the sky was bleeding.

The science experts thought the cause of this unnatural colour was due to a large comet on the other side of the galaxy but Euron and the Green Priests sent there to dismantle the various curses buried in the depths of the Night's Watch forts knew they were wrong. This was the magic of the planets reacting at long last, sorcery and power bleeding into reality, altering the forces between the dimensions to announce the Third Sign and a new age of war.

"The time of peace and summer is almost over...at last vengeance and winter are at the gates."

He could feel it, despite the terrible black armour he was imprisoned in. The cataclysm was near. The abominations were coming and when they emerged from the Breach, it was going to be a fight the stars would remember until they died.

His mechanic laugh echoed in the dark winds.

"I wonder who is going to win in this story. There are too many monsters, not enough heroes, and the South is going to burn as the dragons dance."

Oh, yes in a millennium humanity would remember this war...if it was still in existence.

"Ice, fire or darkness, it makes no difference to me...let the Galaxy and the Gods die."


	13. The Lies of the Long Peace

**The Dying Peace Arc**

 **Chapter 3**

 **The Lies of the Long Peace**

 _According to the Targaryens-bought maesters, the Long Peace was a period of peace – the name supposedly spoke for itself – and prosperity. A new generation was born and lived without experiencing the atrocities of war and bloodshed. Cities were rebuilt. The damage caused by rampaging armies and orbital strikes on countless planets was erased. Tempers and feuds were forgotten. Hastily recruited young men returned to their homes and enjoyed a long period of rest and celebrations. From the date of 18.04.290AAC onwards, Westeros was at peace and the Seven Sectors united benevolently under the Iron Throne._

 _This was nothing more than a huge lie._

 _Every Lord of importance was increasing his military forces. Overtly or secretly, hundreds of new warships were built in the orbital shipyards. Tanks, aircraft, rifles, anti-air artillery, battle-armours and countless other devastating weapons were produced. The former supporters of Robert's Baratheon had not forgotten their grievances of the Usurper's War. Among the Houses who had supported House Targaryen during this civil war, many were feeling unjustly sidelined by the Iron Throne. Dorne in effect if not in name was independent from the rest of Westeros. The River Sector was divided like it had never been before. The Storm Sector was at the edge of bankruptcy. Riots and attacks against symbols of power were spreading throughout the realm._

 _For the common smallfolk in the streets, the sensation was not one of peace. Many planets had established new systems of conscription. Taxes were on the rise, and the monthly income next increase was not coming, despite the promises conveyed by Galactic Targaryen News. New regulations came out of nowhere to become the law, and few of these texts were to the taste of the population._

 _This was peace. No Blackwood trooper was shooting at a Bracken-owned building. Lord Jon Connington was recognised as the legitimate Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector. There were no Dornish raids in the Marches. The great merchant companies were free to trade at will. But it was a very uneasy coexistence. The erratic commands signed with the Royal Seal were not inspiring joyous thoughts to the highborn and smallfolk._

 _And in reality, even this peace was a lie._

 _The Iron Sector, defeated and forced to surrender on 18.04.290AAC, was burning again in the fires of rebellion and insurrection._

 _When one examined the facts, it was completely illogical. The Ironborn had been crushed during their ill-fated Rebellion. The survivors had learned hard the price of treachery and the occupying forces had lengthily and methodically destroyed most of the arsenal built on Balon Greyjoy's orders. There was no money to buy weapons from outside sources, no great resources which could interest foreign interests and no friends to come to the rescue. For millions of Ironborn, the survival of Victarion Greyjoy was a cruel rumour and besides the man's reputation was tainted by his monumental defeat of the Arbor. The Regents and other high-ranking Westerosi Generals and Admirals had bluntly delivered speeches where they were warned fighting their new masters would be an extremely quick death sentence._

 _Rebellion in these conditions should have been close to insanity. But there was a little condition Rhaegar and his councillors had forgotten while they were carving the Sector for their bannersmen._

 _The life under military occupation had to be bearable._

 _Many conquerors had forgotten it time and time again on the galactic scene to their dismay. Each time, the oppressed people broke their chains and fought to reclaim their freedom. And why would the Ironborn be so different?_

 _The 'peace' King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Tywin Lannister and Lord Mace Tyrell had imposed to the Iron Sector was not to last long. By 05.09.290AAC, the Tyrant-General of Great Wyk Ser Gregor Clegane, more infamously known by his nickname of 'the Beast', wiped out an entire village. Its inhabitants had apparently had the temerity to protest the rapes and the murders of several young women. They were incinerated by plasma guns in retaliation._

 _This day was the last one the planet of Great Wyk knew peace. The Ironborn had seen the true face of their conquerors, and knew they had no justice, no prosperity and no mercy to wait from them. The insurrection organised in the shadows and struck the Western soldiers at their most vulnerable moments. Gregor Clegane counter-attacked by seizing thousands of people in the streets and giving them to his torture experts. With the assistance of his subordinate Ser Amory Lorch, a regime of terror was enforced on Great Wyk. Tens of thousands Ironborn were killed, and yet the bloodier massacres never stopped the attacks and revolts. The reparations the Nobles Houses were supposed to pay were close to zero. The illegal weapon trade was flourishing, blockade or not blockade, laws or no laws. The ground garrison of Western soldiers, initially one million and a half strong, was reinforced each year to reach three million and a half regulars by mid-300AAC. Great Wyk was costing House Lannister billions of gold dragons to hold for no return save harsh critics of non-Westerner parties. Gregor Clegane was uncontrollable and killed many Ironborn lords, driving the rest underground. These new rebels did not wait long to take up arms with the old ones and strike back. The Western soldiers were assassinated right and left, and the most spectacular terrorist attacks saw sabotaged shuttles slamming in military bases at Mach speed._

 _Great Wyk was unsalvageable and the pleas of the other military governors to King Rhaegar Targaryen and Lord Tywin Lannister were ignored, with predictable results._

 _Out of eight planets inhabited in the Iron Sector, there was a single stellar system which was not erupting in violence every week: Harlaw. The authority of Lord Paramount Rodrik Harlaw and the reasonable stance taken by Inspector-General Axell Florent had until 300AAC managed to keep the occupation calm and the economy functioning – though the benefits were invariably swallowed by the reparation payments._

 _Unfortunately, it was the exception in a dark ocean of violence. Sellswords, pirates and corsairs were circling around the Iron Systems, lending their strength to one side or the other. It was bad enough most of the military governors had arrived without a strategy when they were nominated for this task; in their minds, the occupation had been a way to fill their pockets with gold, platinum, trade agreements and raw resources. The Westerosi Lords didn't want to hear that before taking that wealth, there was a lot of investment and rebuilding. The Ironborn would have gladly accepted a return to their pre-war lives. Ser Desmond Redwyne, Ser Lyn Corbray, Ser Tygett Lannister and Lord Corwin Musgood –among others – weren't willing to let this future exist. The religious persecutions started by the end of 290AAC, generating outrage and disgust. The reforms of the justice system – giving the garrison forces a free hand on practically everything – antagonised further the population of Pyke and the other major urban centres. The heavy and light industries were owned by Reach, Western, Crown and River companies. Licences which had been property of Ironborn elites were sold to their 'benefactors' for ridiculously low sums._

 _These were exactly the measures required for a maximum of unrest to spread. While the disobedience and the revolts never reached the level of Great Wyk, the garrison forces from the Lonely Light to Orkmont were firing their guns every month and not for the customary training exercises._

 _There were a few optimist commanders to report at home these problems were going to be minor nuisances in the long term. After one decade of military occupation which gained them the hatred of the Ironborn, these voices had long been silenced. The garrisoning was thankless, sabotage of the production lines was business as usual, the workforce was poorly educated and unmotivated, the sums they squeezed from the destroyed economy were smaller than in their darkest nightmares and worst of all, the duty never ended._

 _In a failure that was sadly typical of the final years of the Targaryen dynasty, there had been no rotation system to garrison the vanquished Iron Sector. There was also very little supervision; one of the reasons the Beast could remain in post no matter how many atrocities he caused. In the Florent-Harlaw case, the consequences were positive, as the young Lord Alekyne Florent was perfectly willing to endorse his uncle's actions as long as they remained bloodless. In the Saltcliffe case, it was the complete opposite: Lyn Corbray and the forces he had gained from Houses Corbray, Lynderly and Grafton had no one to answer to: Lord Jon Arryn had not given his assent to this move and never provided any help._

 _Balon Greyjoy was long dead, but his sins continued to haunt the living of the Iron Sector. As long as the Long Peace continued, the loyalists could strangle the Sector for another decade. It was a very unreasonable condition, when Reach and Western men vied for total supremacy at court..._

Extract from the Lies and the Vengeance, Anonymous author, 320AAC.

* * *

 **Ser Axell Florent, 08.07.300AAC, Pyke System**

The meeting opened, as usual, by the customary ten minutes of silence.

"Let it be known," said finally Ser Desmond Redwyne in his authority as host of the council, "that the representative of Great Wyk has failed to present himself or to send a delegate speaking with his authority. Again."

Ser Lyn chose this moment to snigger loudly, an unpleasant sound if there ever was one. And unavoidably, the ire of certain senior military commanders was roused.

"You find the insubordination of Clegane amusing, Corbray?" snarled Lord Corwin Musgood. The Storm Lord looked tired, in Axell's opinion. His usually great beard was getting shorter year after year, and a lot of his hairs had turned grey and white. His eyes were bloodshot and there were new wrinkles on his middle-aged visage.

The Lord gathering in a single body the titles of Musgood Hall and Sentinel-General of the Lonely Light was not fifty name days old yet, but he looked like a man fifteen years older. Priceless medical treatments could do nothing when the patient was killing himself to save his fleet and his army from ruin.

"I'm finding amusing by the fact you still pretend we have any control over the Beast's actions." Ser Robin Ryger flinched when the name was uttered by the Vale commander. "The only person Clegane and Lorch listen to is Tywin Lannister. Only the Lord of Casterly Rock and the King can recall the monsters of Great Wyk...and last time I checked they were both busy ignoring us."

The words were certainly blunt, not that it was a surprise Lyn Corbray was not a diplomatic man. But that didn't mean he was wrong.

"I resent your accusations," growled Ser Tygett Lannister, slamming his hands on the polished round table they were all seated around. The staring between the Valeman and the Westerner was impressive.

"Well, what do you wait to challenge me in duel?" Lyn's smirk was back and becoming clearer by the second. His fighting hand went to the hilt of his long Valyrian blade. "It has been too long my Lady has tasted a warrior's blood."

It was amazing how fast the vast council room where the military governors of the Iron Sector had gathered could get frosty. One second, they were watching each other calmly, the other they were ready to kill each other. Idly, Axell wondered if the Small Council's meetings were that interesting...probably not.

To his credit, Tygett Lannister continued to stare and didn't react to the provocation. Good point for him, because Lyn Corbray was not a man who bluffed his way out of duels. The wielder of Lady Forlorn had ended many lives on the field of honour and thousands more. There were nasty rumours the younger brother of the current Lord Corbray was organising illegal fighting rings in the underground arenas of Saltcliffe with himself as the prime gladiator. They might be true, for all he knew.

"Enough," ordered Ser Desmond, quickly followed by his second-in-command, Ser Humfrey Hightower. "Corbray, if you want a duel so badly, go to Great Wyk and challenge Ser Gregor Clegane."

The tone employed by the cousin of Lord Paxter told the others men no tears would be shed for the one who lost this duel.

"Clegane is a Beast, not a swordsman..." The grumble was half-disdainful, but there was a light of fear in the Lyn's eyes.

Seeing the biggest problem present around the table placated, the Regent of Pyke turned towards Ryger.

"How fares things on Old Wyk?"

Big, bald and old, the Riverlander was not an impressive figure and by the stone-faced expression he was harbouring, the answer to this particular question was all too predictable.

"Bad enough, Lord Regent." In his brown uniform, Ser Robin Ryger had tacitly acknowledged the Regency of Pyke gave Redwyne a superior position to his title of Castellan-General of Old Wyk. Whether it was a command coming straight from House Darry or not, Axell had not managed to discover it. "The destruction of the last two Void Temples two months ago has enraged the population. Taxes collected have decreased by five percent, eight orbital mining extraction centres have been damaged, sabotage and disrepair on the ground are taking their usual tolls and I've lost over six thousand men dead with another fifteen thousand wounded in the last fortnight."

Axell showed a grim expression of circumstance. He had not to force it, really. Once more, the soldiers were paying for the mistakes of their commanders. What had Ryger been thinking destroying religious cults right and left? If there was one poison they really didn't need to throw into the toxic bath, it was the holy war of faith...

"And how many Void Priests did you kill?" The worsening economic situation left Desmond Redwyne and the subordinates he had come with insensible.

"Between four hundred and four hundred and thirty," revealed the River Vice-Admiral. "The leaders of the _Prophets of the Void_ have all been sentenced to death and their followers will dig in our darkest pits for the rest of their lives."

"Very good," the smile of his fellow Reacher was not feigned at all. "Soon the Void Religion will be utterly annihilated and the orders from our beloved King will have been accomplished to the letter."

Ser Jarmen Buckwell coughed very loudly in the seconds after this declaration.

"You disagree, Admiral?"

"Oh no, Lord Regent," There was something dark in the Crownlander's posture. "I am sure we have methodically destroyed this heretical worship to the root. Their temples are blown up, their priests are dead, their holy texts and grounds have been burned and their material wealth has been confiscated. The few Priests we haven't been able to kill are hidden in holes so deep they're for all intent and purposes dead."

"I'm not hearing a question," remarked lightly Humfrey Hightower, and many junior officers behind him chuckled.

"Ah yes, how forgetful of me," agreed Jarmen. "My interrogation is: what exactly was this feat supposed to accomplish?"

"We are paving the ground for the Seven!" How Hightower and his subordinates achieved this virtuous look in all sincerity, Axell preferred not to know, thank you very much. "Once the Void Religion will be utterly eradicated, there will be nothing to stop us from declaring the Faith the true and only religion of the Iron Sector!"

"Yes, because the Ironborn are going to flock to the septs by the thousands any day now," Humfrey and Desmond's face went red when they heard the sarcastic sentence.

This might be a little unfair. There were about one hundred thousand Seven-worshipping Ironborn these days...all on Harlaw granted...and for a Sector of around five billion people?

"All we need is a decade or two and the Ironborn culture will be forced to assimilate our religion and the traits we want," added the Redwyne officer in a more composed affirmation.

"We don't have a decade," there was no irony in the Crown Lord's words now. The man was deadly serious. Square and black-haired, the knight of House Buckwell serving as Defender-General of Orkmont was like a solid rock in the middle of a tempest, preparing to defend his point of view against all enemies. Not that he risked much: House Buckwell and his Lord were openly keeping their hands off this mess, and the worst which could happen to him was his recall at home...an unlikely possibility assuredly.

"My analysts have studied the numbers. The Orkmont System is in a better state than most, but their conclusions are I have a maximum of three years before the situation on the ground gets out of control and I'm forced to resort to extraordinary measures. I have not yet received a third of the money and a quarter of the materials I need to rebuild adequately the planet, and the men, women and children on the ground are tired to hear my excuses."

"You're right: these are poor excuses," the glare which was directed at Tygett Lannister showed this intervention had damaged a bit more the relationships between the Western Sector and the supporters of the King.

Axell was ready for another dispute when a messenger ran inside the conference room, his face looking somewhere between horrified and terrified. The brown-haired youth in a superb green uniform handed the data-slate to Desmond Redwyne.

Whatever information was in it, it was sufficient grave for the Regent of Pyke's face to become livid.

"There was a chemical attack on Great Wyk several days ago." The commander of all space forces in the Pyke System managed to articulate after a moment to consider the news. "Gregor Clegane wanted to gas thousands of rebels...and ended launching the bombardment on his own men."

Axell Florent had the sudden urge to hit something. He had come to build a power base safely away from Mace Tyrell's reach, but idiots like Clegane and Lorch had ruined his plans before they had even begun...

* * *

 _According to the whispers spreading after the Greyjoy Rebellion, the antagonism between House Baratheon and House Connington started when Lord Robert Baratheon made a joke about Lord Jon Connington's friendship with the then-Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and matters escalated from there._

 _This was partially inexact, according to the archives of the Citadel and other old historical documents. While no one can doubt the enmity between Storm's End and Griffin's Roost reached its worst point after the Greyjoy Rebellion, this was far from the first time Lords of these two stellar systems had loud disagreements._

 _One jump away from Storm's End itself, the system ruled by House Connington was a tenacious opponent for the Durrandon Kings in their conquest of the Storm Sector. Many fleets of the stag were lost in offensives to destroy the shipyards of the Griffin's Belt and the numbers of armies bloodied trying to gain a foothold on the planet was not small. The Kings of the Storm fought many wars in order to see their stubborn neighbours bend the knee, and it was said with some justice that save House Swann of Stonehelm, no enemy proved as difficult to vanquish._

 _The victory of the Durrandon Kings and their unquestioned domination over the Storm Kingdom was not a boon for House Connington and tensions remained high for generations. Griffin's Roost was a critical system to hold as it controlled the nexus of jump points making possible to get in and out the Rain sub-sector and exploit its vast resources. Taxes were high, and House Connington never received the authorisation to build more than the bare minimum of shipyards and orbital fortresses. Griffin's Roost had been a powerhouse when it was independent, but under the Durrandon rule, the red and white banners were at best a second-rate power. The Lord of the Marches received the greatest part of the war investments and Griffin's Roost had to arm its warships and army groups with very limited funds._

 _Yet House Durrandon disappeared with the Conquest, and the new House Baratheon proved far more amenable to their pleas. Orys Baratheon was named first Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector by the Conqueror himself. The formidable General needed political support to counterbalance the ambition of House Swann, House Grandison and House Fell. Lifting several military restrictions and taxes in exchange of the undying support of House Connington must have appeared like a good bargain to the new Lord of Storm's End. Obviously, House Connington was never going to be authorised to challenge the centre of the Storm Sector but thanks to them, the southern flank of Storm's End was going to be heavily guarded._

 _Two hundred and eighty years later, Lord Robert Baratheon discovered at his return in the Storm Sector they must have kept a better surveillance on their bannersmen. Lord Jon Connington stayed loyal to King Aerys II, delaying the mustering of a third of the Storm Sector by weeks and forcing the man who would be called the Usurper to fight three battles in the Summerhall System in a disadvantageous position. When Lord Mace Tyrell invaded the Sector after the Battle of Ashford, House Connington proved to be the dagger which destroyed every defensive effort made by the Storm Lords to stop this relentless offensive. Storm's End was blockaded, and at the end of the war Lord Jon Connington for his unconditional loyalty was made the new Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector._

 _A new era began, but it was not one of prosperity. Indeed since his ascension to the Paramountcy, the domination of House Connington is by all unbiased accounts an economic disaster without precedent..._

Extract from the Tumultuous History of the Griffin and the Stag, by Novice Krael, a work censored by the Maesters for its pro-Baratheon stance in 298AAC.

* * *

 **Stannis Baratheon, 08.07.300AAC, Storm's End System**

If he was given the choice between eating rat's meat and granting an audience to his prestigious visitors today, he would have chosen the rats. After all, the worst which could happen by devouring such vermin was death by poisoning. If only he could say the same thing about the delegation which had come straight from Griffin's Roost...

Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, readjusted his black cloak as he entered the vast hall the Durrandons had once called a private throne room for hundreds of years. The main difference between the 'private' and the 'public' throne room was a question of size, for those who wondered. In this place renamed an audience room in subservience of their dragon overlords, there was sufficient space to parade a regiment with ease. The great throne room of the Storm Kingdom, on the other hand, was so vast they could build a ship of the line there and still have room to spare. It was also completely unsuitable unless you had to summon tens of thousands people for a great ceremony.

Walking in long strides, the eldest Baratheon alive sat on his seat. It was a comfortable and practical armchair, not the huge thing Robert had ordered for himself before fleeing to the Vale Sector for a life of debauchery and weapon training. No, that seat had been sold in the weeks after the end of the Rebellion to pay the ruinous reparations the Targaryens and their bootlickers had pushed for and that Storm's End could not refuse. Not that it had been a great loss, really. Robert had always found it easy to spend money he had done nothing to earn and his throne-chair had had so many gemstones, gold and onyx on it that it was seriously indecent. Truly, Stannis had several times shivered in his personal solar these last years at what would have happened if the roles were reversed. Had he died in the great battle of the Trident and Robert surrendered after the long siege...well, there would have been really unpleasant consequences. Stannis had done his best to present to his people the image of a Lord conscious of his duties, a good husband, a father of two children and a planetary governor burdened by the taxes, penalties and other punishments that King's Landing and Griffin's Roost loved to torment the Stormlanders' population. Many important wages and privileges had been severely cut down, centuries-old tapestries and paintings that had been collecting dust for the last decades were sold, and sobriety and austerity had made their way in the lands he ruled.

It was purely imaginative by this point, but Stannis had large difficulties seeing Robert of all people adopt his lifestyle. His eldest brother had never been fond of ruling but the best wines, the best battle-armours, the best prey birds, the most impressive parades and the most expensive weapons were all somehow finding their way to him in his youth. He had also sired many bastards during his campaigns. It would have been difficult to force him to listen to the ugly truth of harsh numbers and the sad reality of poor finances...Stannis was realist enough to know he was not and would never be Jon Arryn or Eddard Stark.

"The audience can begin," he gave the command to one of his most trusted Morrigen captains on his left. "Let them enter."

The man saluted and left by a door hidden behind a two centuries-old Baratheon battle-armour. Silence fell on the audience room, only troubled by the fifty guards aligned against the walls and his own respiration. In other circumstances, Stannis would have loved having his beloved wife Ryella by his side, but the last times they had received a Connington at Storm's End, it was his wife who had exploded first after one insult too many of these arrogant dragon-lovers. His children were away and most of his senior councillors were too busy with important duties to be recalled for what was going to be anyway a waste of time and thus he was alone to receive his 'guests'.

The four metres-tall doors opened slowly and majestically to reveal a black-gold herald and a group of about twenty people. And then the Baratheon announcer shouted the names of the highborn which had arrived yesterday and rudely demanded a moment of his time.

"Ser Rhaegar Connington, Heir of Griffin's Roost, Marshal of the Rain Rift, Master of the Griffin Belt and Defender of the Loyal!"

The first teenager who advanced before him was a Connington, of this there was absolutely no doubt. Red-haired, a few bristles on the chin, the eldest son of Rhaegar Targaryen's most lovesick sidekick was so in love with his own importance it was a minor miracle the ground wasn't giving way under his shining black boots.

His appearance was sadly one very similar to the young men frequenting the capital these days – which was fair, since Rhaegar Connington definitely belonged to this category – an atrocious attire in red, white, black and blue. Stannis had seen spectacles where the mummers didn't wear so many colours. And because bad taste was never satisfied by itself, the fifteen years-old boy had a sort of necklace with five diamonds around his neck and rubies encrusted in his costume's sleeves.

To add insult to the injury, there was no salute or mark of respect coming from the son of Jon Connington. Perhaps this moron thought the title of 'Marshal' his father had given him dispensed him from protocol. Stannis hid the anger he felt in his heart with an unfeeling face. He had practised on many occasions in the last decade.

"Ser Loras Tyrell, third in line to the Lordship of Highgarden, the Knight of Flowers, Knight-Commander of the Eighth Spacefighter Fleet and Spear of the South!"

The Connington spawn had decided to be presented in outrageous clothes; the proud son of the Fat Rose had decided to wear a full set of battle-armour minus the helmet. And not just any common armour. It was a customised Terminator model, with finely engraved flowers of platinum as primary decoration. As a result of this silver colour and the thorough polishing, the extremely expensive battle-armour was so perfect it almost could serve as a mirror. It was beautiful...and Stannis knew this work of art cost probably less than four or five battle-tanks bought together.

It went without saying the quality of the protection offered was minimal when like Loras Tyrell you didn't wear your helmet. Seven Hells, the Reacher had not bothered to come with it today! The new generation of the Reach had really abandoned all its survival instincts in the last decade.

"Ser Renly Baratheon, third in line to the Lordship of Storm's End, the Knight of Stags, Admiral of the Fifth Battle Squadron and Blade of the Storm!"

It was painful to see his youngest brother strut like an insipid Reacher and wearing bright gold-blue clothes. He didn't care what the Tyrells did between themselves, but watching the brother he had done his best to shield from the awful reality of war eighteen years ago was a dire wound.

What would they parents think of their little boy, now that he was a caricature of a Tyrell vassal?

All these years, Renly had been the dagger the Tyrells and the Conningtons were happily showing him every time they invented more unreasonable demands or simply felt in a mood to anger him. And for this alone he hated the Tyrells, the Conningtons and the Targaryens more than he believed possible.

Worse, the lovesick looks Renly was giving the young Tyrell were obvious even to him...

"Lord Bryce Caron, Lord of Nightsong, General of the Twentieth Army and Grand Protector of the Marches!"

The only Noble House the Lord of Griffin's Roost had managed to convince to side with him politically since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Bryce Caron was young, dashing...and like the ridiculous Knight of Flowers, he wore a Mark 6 'Terminator' battle-armour. At least his would not seem out of a place on a battlefield...provided the colour orange didn't horrify you of course.

Unlike Rhaegar Connington – a name which gave him the urge to grit his teeth every time he thought about it –Bryce Caron had the decency to avoid strutting around at Storm's End...maybe because he had a clue or two who had the greatest number of Storm Lords answering to him in the room.

The rest of the young men and teenagers in the group were quite unimportant in status and mediocre in intelligence. Parmen Crane, Emmon Cuy, Richard Farrow, Edmund Ambrose and Mark Mullendore were names that were now firmly associated with the entourage of the Crown Prince. Connington had really gathered a sizeable number of idiots to his banner. On the positive side, there were going to be easy to get rid of. On the negative side, his brother was in their ranks...

Looking at them as they tightened ranks before him, Stannis could say without reluctance Mace Tyrell had well-trained this generation to be pathetic excuses of soldiers and Lords. These teenagers and young men had all been handed titles, rewards and income they had done nothing to earn. Examining them one by one, Stannis searched in them one reason, a single excuse, not to execute Operation Cataclysm.

He didn't find it. Not in Renly, not in Bryce Caron...and certainly not in Rhaegar Connington or Loras Tyrell.

"Welcome to Storm's End, Sers." He saw some of the idiots in the group facing him one metre and a half away murmur between themselves. By the Father, Stannis really hoped these young highborn had expected to be greeted one by one with the usual bowing and courtesies they took for granted. He was the Lord of Storm's End and if he gained a reputation for bluntness among them...well, it was not like their opinion was going to matter a lot in the next months. "You requested an audience."

The tone he used made obvious they better have a good reason for intruding without sending a raven-drone of warning beforehand.

"Alas," said Rhaegar Connington. "It is of treason we must warn you Lord Baratheon."

The words should have been full of gravity, but the smiles of his sycophants and the poor manners of Rhaegar Connington made the accusation look like a poorly-made joke.

In fact it was so ridiculous Stannis had to wait a few seconds to realise the red-haired threat and his friends were serious. They had caught none of his preparations; they were just trying to involve him in one of their dreadful 'conspiracies'.

"Prince Viserys Targaryen is conspiring against the Crown Prince," continued the Heir of Griffin's Roost. The revelation was made to provoke the maximum of shock, but personally the incentive was to yawn and order one of his guards to bring him a pillow. "His heinous actions include usurping the authority of the Prince of Dragonstone and authorising illegal military patrols in the Blackwater Rift and the Narrow Void, embezzlement of funds, hiring several unrespectable sellsword companies, refusal to obey Royal Orders, and allying with enemies of the realm."

"Awful," The master of Storm's End replied. "These are grave accusations against a Prince of the dragon's blood and must be reported in all haste to the King and the Small Council with all urgency."

Whatever answer they had awaited from him the disgraces of the Reach and the Storm Sector had not counted on this one.

"The Small Council and the King have not yet been informed," spoke Loras Tyrell, all arrogance momentarily banished from his traits. "The Crown Prince lacks the evidence to move against Prince Viserys but his presence near Dorne offers us an opportunity..."

This was no lamentable Stannis wasn't finding the words for it. They landed screaming 'treason' and 'betrayal' without any evidence. It was clear their master had ordered them to secure Storm's End support without informing anyone in power at King's Landing. And he was ready to bet Jon Connington had not given them a signed order of his own hand too. They wanted to use him as a scapegoat to get rid of a potential rival before the first shot was fired...they really cared for nothing but their games of thrones and power, weren't they?

"So there isn't any evidence." He dearly hoped his voice conveyed how unimpressed he was. "And by your own words, the Small Council has not been warned of these terrible accusations."

And since the Small Council was divided these days, such accusations could have initiated the largest political crisis of the decade.

"Is our word not enough for you, Black Stag?" Emmon Cuy's arrogance was really something. Truly the Lords of the Reach had failed utterly when they had to teach their Heirs respect and wisdom. As for the nickname, it was just a name nothing more. He was not always wearing black, contrary to the rumours spread by these courtesans and dragon-flatterers.

"No, it isn't." The steel expression he sent at the buffoon in gold-pink clothes was not faked. "You barge in my home without warning, you accuse a Prince of Blood to be a traitor and you lack the most basic evidence to support your accusations. Be thankful I'm not imprisoning you immediately for high treason, there are Kings who would have already demanded your heads for the sentences you have just proclaimed."

Aerys would have killed them all, that was a certainty. Rhaegar however was not going to move against the friends of his eldest son but Stannis was going to send a message or two to the capital before the day was over. Everything spreading a bit of chaos in the corrupt machine of the Seven Sectors was a good thing.

"You are going to regret this, Baratheon," the Connington spawn hissed like an injured animal, his ugly face taking a colour on par with his hairs. "When my father hears about this, you and our pitiful allies will enjoy paying new taxes."

About two thirds of the group seemed to rejoice hearing this, and Renly was in it. It hurt. He wished to speak face-to-face with his brother in private once more, wrest him away from the Tyrell's corruptive influence.

But he had already tried it and it had not worked. It never worked.

"Guards! Escort them out of this room. The audience is over."

"I am the Heir of Lord Paramount! Lord Jon Connington will be informed of this perfidy!"

Stannis tried hard not to smile. He had received thousands of threats like this from the Targaryens and their minions, after a while they were very boring. He would have to do his best to circumvent a few edicts of his 'Lord Paramount' in the next days. Doing so never failed to enrage the Master of Griffin's Roost. The red-haired flatterer had almost had an aneurysm when he had learned Stannis was indifferently recruiting men and women in his armed forces. His poor medical personnel, underpaid and understaffed, truly lacked the manpower to recognise if a person was male or female.

Stannis sighed as the last of the Reach youngsters disappeared from his view. Things were going to get bad before there was any improvement.

In the end, his duty to the Storm Sector and his family was far more important than saving a 'brother' who preferred the Tyrells to his own blood.

* * *

 **Margaery Tyrell, 08.07.300AAC, Highgarden System**

The Green Gardens of Gardenia were particularly beautiful this year. Margaery was feeling somewhat guilty watching the thousands of golden roses surrounding her. The Tyrell-owned lands where the Green Gardens were located were not on Highgarden Prime, which was honestly the main reason she rarely visited it. Her lessons, ceremony obligations, art patronage and other duties left her little time to travel to the other planets of the Highgarden System, no matter how interesting the travel promised to be.

The rains of the last month had been a benediction for the flowers and the vegetation. The centuries-old garden built fifty years before the Conquest was resplendent as all the colours of life flourished and developed in a fantastic spectacle. The famous Highgarden roses were dominating the floral competition as it should be, but there were other flowers and fruit trees too. Large trees were providing huge shadows where the highborn and their servants could avoid for a few hours the warm and hot rays of the yellow sun. Thanks the Seven, the Green Gardens had their own canal, providing much needed water to the plants and the little squirrels so common in the parks of Gardenia. More important, the humans could refresh themselves in these pure blue waters and the temperatures were far more pleasant than they would have been otherwise.

For now, Margaery was seated on a flower-decorated chair under a massive oak tree which had probably been planted when the Tyrells were still the Stewards of Highgarden and not its Lords and Masters. She had just finished eating two peaches and a servant had just cleared the white table of the remnants of her lunches.

The Gardens were strangely peaceful to her ears. Margaery was a Tyrell of Highgarden, and it was a rare moment where she was alone. Most of her days, the daughter of the Warden of the South was expected, no encouraged and volunteered to speak with hundreds of people. The fact most of her interlocutors would never be in her presence again was something she had accepted years ago. So was the nearby presence of dozens of cousins, the betrothal with the Crown Prince, and the activities she was to excel in. For the common smallfolk, the life of a highborn lady must appear absolutely wonderful, but Margaery knew how much work and preparations it really entailed.

Birds sang in the branches above her head and Margaery for countless minutes listened to their joyous thrills. The music, the soft caress of an afternoon breeze and the silence made the moment absolutely divine.

It did not last. It never did. In the distance, she heard loud human voices, and since her escort had been commanded to be as discreet as possible, it left only her invitees. Shifting her attention to the platinum-covered watch her father had gifted her on her last name day the daughter of Highgarden had to stop a grimace from appearing on her traits. She knew the tradition of coming late to an appointment you didn't want; she had practised it several times herself this last year. But two hours past the agreed hour had to be some kind of performance in itself. Fortunately, the wait was almost over.

On the neat path carefully maintained by hundreds of gardeners and servants thorough the year, two young women of her own age were walking with expressions telling her the fierce conversation of the last minutes had been anything but friendly.

One of the women was a cousin and a trusted ally. The other was not her cousin, and had caused her grandmother and the women of the Reach plenty of headaches in the last years. Today it was going to end, at last.

On the left, wearing a modest magenta robe with curt sleeves and subtle gold jewellery similar to the ones Margaery possessed was her cousin Desmera Redwyne. House Tyrell and House Redwyne had married and tied their destinies in blood and politics for several generations that they had met each other a lot of time in their childhood. Desmera was a good friend, intelligent and well-mannered, and had cute freckles to complement her orange hairs. When Margaery left for the Crown Sector and her grand marriage, Desmera would go with her as one of her handmaidens.

On the right was a young woman which had nothing in common with them save their age. Calla Rowan had celebrated her seventeen name days like Margaery, but it stopped there. Where Desmera and she had their long hairs carefully dressed in all occasions and cut regularly not to go lower than their shoulders, the golden mane of her second invitee was wild and descending to the hips. The highborn women of the Arbor and Highgarden had chosen robes that were both tasteful and fashionable; the Heiress of Goldengrove was dressed like an expensive prostitute. Her slim pale yellow robe had no sleeves. Calla Rowan was showing so much flesh it was indecent and the transparency of the yellow material indicated the daughter of Lord Mathis Rowan was obviously wearing nothing underneath this outrageous robe.

Oh yes, it was time for this Heiress to stop causing problems in the heart of the Reach. House Rowan was one of the most powerful and trusted Noble Houses of the Reach Sector, it was out of question for this brainless courtesan to imperil the strong alliance decades of effort had been necessary to build.

"Now that you're here, I suppose we can begin," her eyes were of course facing directly Calla. She had asked Desmera to wait for her reluctant guest in a pavilion at the entrance of the Green Gardens and to give her a good tongue-lashing for her punctuality failure. Desmera's lips slightly twitched in amusement; the visage of the Goldengrove Heiress took a moderately embarrassed expression.

"Your behaviour at the last Solstice Ball was completely unacceptable of a Lady of the Reach, Calla Rowan," yesterday she had thought when she had prepared this discussion that her interlocutor would receive the message better if it came with the usual courtesies. After two hours of waiting however, she wasn't in the mood anymore.

But the bitch simply pouted and smiled.

"Not everyone has already a husband coming to her, Lady Margaery." The Tyrell daughter had to force the anger back inside, but by the Mother how she wanted to slap her. "I want a good match for my House. There are no rules against speaking with promising candidates for my hand."

No, but there were rules of modesty and protocol. The Rowan girl outfit had been on the same level of indecency as today, and the methods she had used with the 'candidates' were simply not done.

If it had been limited to this, perhaps it would have stopped there and her grandmother would have reluctantly endorsed the proposal of a few aunts to let the daughter of Lord Mathis Rowan stay under close guard for a couple of years.

But it wasn't.

The young men Calla Rowan had all but invited in her bed were Lord Alekyne Florent and Lord Samwell Tarly. And as much as she wanted to laugh at the hypothetical marriage of 'the Fat One' or the 'Mediocre' to this slut, it would be a political disaster to let a Tarly-Florent-Rowan bloc take shape.

"Well, in this case you're going to be happy, my dear. Your father has decided it is time for you to be married." Margaery smiled widely and her interlocutor frowned. A white letter in old-fashioned paper – a rarity if there ever was one - was placed on the wooden table.

Betraying her lack of composure and education, Calla seized the object and opened it without waiting. Now there was just to wait for the explosion...the tanned visage became pale, then furious...and then there was the explosion.

"Lord Peake? You have convinced my father to marry me to Lord Titus Peake?" Fury and incredulity were fighting in the whore's voice. Margaery savoured it like the meal she had eaten before this meeting. It was absolutely delicious to demolish the arrogance of this girl. She had never liked the Rowan Heiress and now hopefully her two younger sisters would be more promising candidates for the Ladyship.

"Yes, Lord Titus Peake has manifested a deep interest in a union with House Rowan." It was not exactly a surprise. The Blackfyre Rebellions had been a heavy blow to the power of Starpike, and the Peakes were definitely not key players in the Game of Thrones anymore. "You might remember the beloved wife of Lord Peake has sadly passed away six months ago and Lord Titus has alas no heirs of his blood."

The demise of Lady Margot Peake born Lannister had of course been ordered by her grandmother. The lioness had tried to use her family ties to spread the influence of Tywin Lannister in the Reach Sector, a betrayal which could not go unchallenged.

"I remember," there was fury in the blue Rowan eyes. "I also remember Lord Peake of Starpike is over fifty years old!"

"No, it's actually forty-eight, not fifty," corrected Desmera. If looks could kill, the venomous glance Calla Rowan sent to her cousin would have killed her on the spot.

"You married me to an old man," and the expression of despair on the Goldengrove young woman was a bit comical, Margaery had to admit.

"A shuttle is waiting for you at the starport," she tried to keep the satisfaction out of her voice but it was a bit difficult. "You leave for Starpike tonight. Lord Mathis is on his way from the Northern Marches and will arrive in time for the wedding's day."

It was extremely fascinating to see all the multitude of feelings expressed by Calla Rowan's visage and gestures. There was despair, rage, anger, betrayal...and after a minute or silence reading and reading the letter, there was a tear at the edge of her left eye. It was immediately removed and her traits became stone-like.

"Do you want to know the reason I wanted to be betrothed to the Florent or the Tarly Heir?" Her voice had lost all anger, and for a moment Margaery didn't know what to think about this change. As such, it was Desmera who answered the question.

"You wanted a husband who didn't care about being a cuckold," and yes, this had been her reasoning too. "Tarly is always speaking of his wonderful machines and Alekyne interests have never been with women."

A humourless chuckle answered Desmera's words.

"No, I chose them because you are going to lose." The disgraced Heiress of Goldengrove stood from her chair, not departing of her emotionless expression. "House Tyrell has shackled itself to the corpse of a dragon and you are all going to fall into the abyss with it. Have fun with your Crown Prince, Margaery. I heard he's bedding five different women each night."

No more words were spoken and Calla Rowan marched out, neither asking leave nor giving any sign she had been in presence of persons of higher station than hers. It could have been a dignified march, but the breeze in the Grey Gardens was showing in a limpid manner how lightly clothed she was.

Her cousin waited for her invitee to have disappeared before she scoffed.

"You are going to lose," the imitation was not perfect, but Margaery and Desmera had a good laugh. "Like this stupid whore understands anything which does not include selling her body." The daughter of the Master of the Arbor did not spit on the ground, but the envy was definitely there. "We have the biggest fleet of the Seven Sectors assembled one jump away from here, you are going to be Queen and soon the Lannisters are going to be humbled. If she can't understand this, she really deserves her new husband."

Margaery nodded in approval. The alliance of the Crown and the Reach Sectors had now the military strength to crush all opposition and their influence at court had never been stronger.

"I completely agree, but in all fairness I must recognise Calla has at least been useful to point a major problem."

"That Lord Tarly and Lord Florent are not married, I take it?" As Margaery confirmed it with a simple smile, Desmera made a concerned gesture with her right hand.

"Absolutely, those two Houses are the loudest voices against us." The rest of the Reach Sector was completely obedient before the Highgarden-Arbor-Oldtown alliance. Right now, Brightwater Keep and Horn Hill were the only sources of opposition to their power inside the Reach. Unity of purpose to win the Game of Thrones had never been closer.

"I suppose Lady Olenna has taken steps to remedy to this?"

"Indeed," Margaery smiled while watching the Grey Gardens in all their greenness continue around them their peaceful vigil. "Indeed."

* * *

 **Samwell Tarly, 09.07.300AAC, Horn Hill System**

"I have to do what?"

Until his dying breath, Sam would swear he had not shrieked after the sentence had been spoken. He was the Lord of Horn Hill, the son of the great war-hero Lord Randyll Tarly, who had given his life to kill the treacherous Usurper Robert Baratheon.

He didn't shriek like a little girl. He just manifested his surprise loudly and vigorously, yes it sounded better in his own head.

"Mother, there must be a mistake," he hated how his voice was trembling when it had been so assured moments ago. But Sam couldn't control it. Give him a speech including engines, fusion reactors, laser weapon conception and the construction of orbital defences, and he could recite it with his eyes closed. But when it came to anything else...he was a bit cowardly. Not much, but the world outside his research and development labs, simulations rooms and mechanical engineering stations was a bit too frightening and bloodthirsty to his taste. Sam enjoyed designing new technological marvels. He couldn't say the same thing about politics and the game of influence and backstabbing between the different Noble Houses. "I never said I wanted to marry anyone."

His mother smiled, but he could recognise the frustration behind it.

"Evidently someone at Highgarden disagrees, my son." The choice of the words gave him pause. Throwing a new look at the fragile sample of expensive and old-fashioned paper in his hands, Samwell could see the officials seals on the lower part of the document included a very infamous rose symbols with a lot of thorns. The message did not come from Lord Mace Tyrell or one of his councillors, it was the Queen of Thorns herself who had written it – or at the very least dictated it.

"But mother...why do they want me to marry _Asha Greyjoy_ of all people?" His question was uncomfortably close to a whine, but he ignored it.

And his mother chuckled. Chuckled!

"Maybe they saw you speaking with Mathis' daughter at the last ball and decided there was no reason for you to remain unwed any longer."

Samwell blushed, the embarrassment seizing his entire body. He knew this had been too true to be good: girls never listened to him when he attended formal receptions, festivals and balls. They never cared about his inventions, the new class of ships of the line which had emerged from the Horn Hill shipyards. The girls found him fat. They wanted to hear poetry and songs, but he didn't manage to utter one verse without becoming a gibbering mess and he was clumsy when it came to play music instruments. He didn't understand the girls, they might as well be a foreign species for all he understood them. And he really didn't like Lady Margaery, her cousins and her massive court. He may be the youngest Rear-Admiral in the engineering hierarchy, but the sole preoccupation the daughter of Mace Tyrell and her little army cared about was spreading ugly rumours on him and his cousins. Alekyne had suffered a lot last year when they had spread rumours he loved men.

Calla had been different. She had stayed when he had told her the very concept of the battlecruisers championed by House Fossoway was a complete mistake. The Rowan Heiress had debated with him for a few hours, giving him genuinely her opinion and correcting him when he made a mistake. And she was rather pretty, he had to admit. In hindsight, Sam figured, it had probably been too good to be true. No good deed goes unpunished and all of that crap.

"I can disobey," he received a very firm stare from his mother and was forced to look away. "Mother, Asha Greyjoy has killed the last two men the Tyrells tried to wed her to. Everyone knows that! The first didn't get to the altar, and the second died before the bedding! I don't want to be the third!"

"The marriage will take place here at Horn Hill. You will be surrounded constantly by hundreds of guards," replied his mother in a patient tone she gave him when she believed he behave like a spoiled child. "And let's be no mistake, my son, this union is not a suggestion. Should we fail to comply, there would be unpleasant economic consequences for House Tarly."

For a second Sam wanted to scream and rail against House Tyrell. After all the loyalty his father had given them, these up-jumped stewards were really prompt to throw him under the tank column. Oh sure, they had built a big statue of his father and given his name to several streets here and there. But when the gains and the titles were ready to be shared, House Tarly and the Houses which had bled at the Trident were put on the sidelines. Lord Mace and his friends were generous like that.

"And the dowry?" He asked in a last attempt to escape his doom. "House Greyjoy has lost everything in its failed Rebellion, including their money and their warships." He could care less about it, being the Lord and Master of a stellar system where two billion and nine hundred million souls lived, but it was the kind of argument his mother appreciated. "Lady Asha Greyjoy may be the daughter of a Noble House officially, but the Ironborn Houses do not rule their systems anymore. In status and in wealth, House Greyjoy is a fifth-rate Knight House, not a Noble House like House Tarly, Florent or Oakheart!"

"Lord Harlaw has graciously accepted to give his niece a dowry worthy of her noble birth."

His mother made a side-step to observe the stars and the warships on the other side of the supraglass bay.

"I didn't say it wasn't an insult, Samwell." For the first time, he heard in his mother's voice something like bitterness. "But you will have to accept."

Truly he hated politics and the 'Game of Thrones' the uncountable legions of boys and girls of Highgarden loved to play. Unfortunately, he had to curb the chin, bend his knee and play along. His father would have said 'no', but Sam was afraid and he didn't have a lot of allies.

"What happened to Calla?" Sam was not aware of all the considerations behind the Tyrell spider spinning its web behind the Lord Paramount of the Reach. But he knew the young Tyrells loved mocking him.

"She is to be married to Lord Peake before the end of the month." Despite himself, the Lord of Horn Hill felt a cold shiver on his neck. The Bard Guild could play the _Rains of Castamere_ all they wanted for everyone to have in mind the brutality of the lions, but the Tyrells were as dangerous in their own way. Marrying a young woman to a Lord twenty or thirty years her senior...Margaery Tyrell was really a bitch.

Not that he would ever call her like that in public or in private, Samwell Tarly wanted to keep his head.

"Fine, I will graciously accept the bride suggested by our esteemed friends of Highgarden." Sam said it with all the enthusiasm he could muster – and it wasn't a lot. In fact, it sounded to his ears like his funeral eulogy. "When is the marriage supposed to take place?"

Dreadful question and he wasn't eager to know the answer.

"One month," and just like this the urge to take a starship and depart for the Free Planets had never been higher. This was not cowardice, not exactly. It was...self-preservation.

"One month," he repeated morosely before leaving the hall and returning to the test-trials of the new SAM-3000 missile (called for Superiority Anti-Ship Missile, not because he wanted something with his first name). Maybe he could console himself with the satisfaction of humiliating the Javelins AS-21 equipping the Tyrell warships...

 _For forty long years, the Targaryens boasted countless times that they exterminated the Blackfyre usurpers. From the bridges of their golden flagships they took comfort that Maelys the Monstrous had perished as their control over Westeros slipped away. Even as the Usurper's Rebellion sapped the very foundations of the realm, several Crown Lords and loyalist supporters of the Iron Throne shared their relief the descendants of Daemon Blackfyre were no longer there to exploit the situation to their advantage._

 _Forty years and the gaze of the Iron Throne turned its attention away from Tyrosh and the Golden Company, the two institutions harbouring the remnants of its mortal enemies. There were far bigger problems in Westeros to deal with, a lot of them created by the very actions of Aegon the Conqueror's blood._

 _It was a terrible error. As the Seven Sectors prepared for the cruellest of all civil wars, the Black Dragon was once more reborn from its ashes to strike again..._

Extract from the Last Dance of the Dragons by Maester Ulrich, 328AAC.

* * *

 **Queen Rhaenyra Blackfyre, 11.07.300AAC, Tyrosh System**

Nobody spoke on the conference room of the _Black Dragon_ as 'King Victarion' was escorted away.

Rhaenyra could safely say this was not a mark of respect from her allies seated on the lavishly decorated seats around the great holographic image of the Seven Sectors.

"This man is going to be trouble," declared Admiral Salladhor Saan. For once, the flamboyant Lysene was harbouring a very serious expression. "I know you told us we didn't need to trust this Ironborn, Arch-Dominarch, but..."

"But you wonder if he will even bother reading the plan I've given to him." The young woman finished, inwardly a bit irritated the Essossi continued to call her by this name. She was an Admiral, damn it! She was also a Queen but for a reason which continued to escape her, the men and women under her command had decided to give her a Valyrian rank long abandoned by the military forces of the Free Planets.

"Yes, Arch-Dominarch," on a regular navy, the self-styled 'Prince of the Narrow Void' would have been shot by a firing squad for his indecent uniform. The silver suit he wore was of the latest fashion, which meant everyone could admire the muscles underneath. The brilliant green cap adorned with feathers of exotic birds, the green belt and the high white boots completed his unique appearance.

"For all his claims of kingship and legitimate claims, Victarion Greyjoy is nothing but a brute thirsting for revenge."

"Don't underestimate him," she warned the Lysene. In every strategy class and hired tutoring she had received in the last decade, Volantene, Lysene, Pentoshi, Myrish and veteran sellswords all agreed on one point: underestimating someone was a fast and sure path to the grave. The younger brother of 'King' Balon was not unduly alarming her, but she had taken precautions against him nonetheless. "Victarion Greyjoy, for all his rudeness and his total lack of manners, has managed to stay alive and expand his pirate fleet."

"Yes, but he is the only thing holding this rag-tag group of murderers, rapists and outcasts together," the flawless visage of Admiral Iovinos Helloquo of the Volantene Navy was not inspiring great confidence. "He is also so intoxicated with experimental drugs that I can't help but wonder how many years he has left before his body breaks."

And it was a Volantene who was talking. Iovinos was fuming and ingesting a lot of addicting substances millions of Essossi and Westerosi alike would never have tried unless the alternative was death. Most of the drugs were perfectly legal at Volantis and its tributary systems, but it was something she was not going to emulate on Westerosi planets.

"Your arguments are noted." The silver-haired claimant of the Blackfyre line affirmed. "Fortunately, the usefulness of Victarion Greyjoy is not that critical to our plans."

"You convinced the Archon to sell him at a ridiculous price fifty battle-spheres and five flag-dreadnaughts, my Queen." The voice of Harry Strickland was unimpressive, and the body it was associated to was not the one of a bodybuilder to say the least. It had needed months of persuading for the Captain-General to join her cause and four major battles against sellsail opponents. But in the end, he had capitulated before his men rose in revolt and nominated her to replace him.

There was some part of her regretting it, but Strickland remained an excellent logistical officer and an endless source of information on certain subjects. He had also a spy network of appreciable size which did not depend on the one of her Uncle. Rhaenyra trusted Varys with her life, something she could not say for the Captain-General, but their men did not operate in the same social classes.

"Old units that were about to be retired from service and scrapped," she affirmed, and it was the truth after all. "Besides, the campaign of liberation led by the legitimate Iron King needs to be something credible. If I had not boosted his numbers with these warships, the only outcome waiting for him once he went back home would have been an explosive death in the first battle."

Oh, the Ironborn would have fought, that she had no doubt about it. But they were between ten and fourteen ships of the line spread on eight stellar systems to defeat. And Victarion Greyjoy's assets were very limited to deal with these major threats. He had gained the _Storm of Iron_ , a Lysene super-cruiser slightly superior in length to Westerosi battlecruisers. There was also the _Wings of Revenge_ , a Volantene strike carrier. But one of his two remaining longships had required heavy repairs – and given the different blueprints she was not that convinced the Tyroshi experts had managed to fix everything. The rest of his units were not suited to a prolonged campaign, pirate vessels or light units were built for skirmishes between corsairs.

The flag-dreadnaughts and the battle-spheres would change the equation. These units were basically the Tyroshi equivalent of ships of the line and heavy cruisers, giving the Ironborn an exponential increase of firepower. They would be still significantly outnumbered, but if Victarion fought smart, he had a chance of liberating his home. It was not a good one, and when the unavoidable counter-attack came, the 'King' was going to be monumentally screwed, but it was a chance.

"I want Victarion Greyjoy to set the Iron Sector aflame and neutralise the Deep Space forces the Targaryens have sent there, making them unable to intervene for months. I do not think the Ironborn will be able to win, but they will force the Reach and the West to send more forces to crush the uprisings." She explained with a smile to her allies.

Her parents had given her a lot of books on the Ironborn culture and while some bias was unavoidable, Rhaenyra had been sick when she had had a clear idea of what the Greyjoys had truly reigned upon. The recent massacres were horrible of course, but the bloody fist used to annihilate the Greyjoy Rebellion had been perfectly justified.

"I am impressed by your willingness to plunge an entire Sector in fire and blood," Saan sent her a very funny look...unless he was trying to see her breasts under her black-silver uniform. In this case she would have to find some light punishment for him...again.

"The Iron Sector is already a huge disaster," if she had tried to do worse, Rhaenyra was not sure she would have succeeded given how badly the Iron Throne had handed this mess in the last years. "I have some plans to deal with it once I will be on the throne, but for now it will have to wait."

She turned back her head to the Volantene Admiral.

"Have we other important topics to deal with today?"

"Just one," and Iovinos Helloquo genuinely looked happy. In the next seconds, someone in this system was definitely going to be very sorry or her name wasn't Rhaenyra Blackfyre. "We caught a spy a few hours ago. He was on your 'list of interest' and we consequently arrested him instead of spacing him out of an airlock."

"His name?"

"Jorah Mormont."

"Oh, him," It was Uncle Varys who had advised her to be careful of this Northerner. The only bannersman of Winterfell to have betrayed his allegiance for a Hightower girl and the man had not even had the courage to fall on his blade when his betrayal became known. "Future negotiations with the North are going to be easier if we can give the Starks his head..."

* * *

 **Lord Eddard Stark, 13.07.300AAC, Winterfell System**

Once upon a time, councils of war - especially for conflicts on a galactic-wide scale - were quite serious affairs.

Eddard did not know when and where it had begun to unravel. He truly didn't know and he was sure the Old Gods were laughing at his predicament. The Lord of Winterfell wouldn't have believed Taranos, Sironia, Abnobia, Nantosueltos, Roboros, Camulia, Dispatos, Arausia and Borrumos had a deep sense of humour, but as improbable events succeeded to improbable events, a divine joke was not something he was ready to dismiss out of hand anymore.

To be honest, Eddard longed for a day where all this surreal issues disappeared and House Stark had nothing more problematic on its list of enemies than the degenerate product of incest known as the Rapist.

It would be quite a pleasure to take his fleet to the galactic south, defeat the Targaryen fleet and remove the head of the 'King' and those idiots enough to follow him.

There was something in his heart telling him it was not going tomorrow.

An inhuman race of monsters powerful enough to scour planets and animate the dead of all living beings was on its way. The corpse of an ice dragon was lying on the snow of one of his planets. An egg of the same species was on the table in front of him, stabilised by a magical creation of the Green Priests. His children had all received direwolves pups for companions, and after being buried under the paperwork by his own subjects and the priesthood, he had capitulated and accepted the unavoidable.

Now he had the same direwolf eager for steaks and caresses following him everywhere – and yes it included the room he was present at this moment. In turn, it meant he had to keep every time with him two sworn swords to make sure the irritating animal didn't manifest his enthusiasm in a destructing way. Or cause more chaos than whatever norm the direwolves were accustomed to. Because if by some mysterious turn of fate and blessing of the Old Gods 'Dragon's Doom' – a name endorsed by a majority vote of the Winterfell population – behaved like a well-civilised pet, it was still a direwolf with a respectable size and an incredible appetite. The latter was more commented on the holo-net than the former, strangely.

Catelyn had laughed a lot...until their return at Winterfell and the mother of the direwolves' pups began to follow her everywhere. Everywhere. Thanks to the privileges of nobility, House Stark had been the Kings in the North for untold generations and as such had built huge ancestral fortresses. Winterfell Castle had wide corridors and other avenues, an architectural feat he had never been more thankful than he was now. It would have cost him a fortune to rebuild Winterfell to the 'direwolf standard' otherwise.

Abandoning these thoughts which conveyed how insane the Northern Sector was becoming these last days, Eddard Stark took his seat at the end of the rectangular table and gave one or two glances at his grey uniform to see if the contacts with his 'pet' hadn't left too many fur on it. To his relief, the answer was negative and as he watched around the table, twenty Green priests representing the nine deity cults of the North met his eyes without flinching.

"I have a general briefing in two hours with the commanders of First Fleet and I don't want to be late, so this meeting will have to be brief." The Lord Paramount of the North said to the men who had become his magical experts by default. "The Sword?"

It was the Priest-Knight of Taranos Bur who answered his question.

"We have sealed this abomination in one of our renovated fortresses and spent hundreds of hours drawing runes here before we transport them to build new walls of containment. For the short-term, Her Sword is sealed and not able to influence any mortal's soul."

"But the Others know it is somewhere in the Winterfell System," interjected a second Green Priest harbouring the symbol of the hourglass, making him a servant of Roboros, the Old God of Time. "It is highly unlikely they will be able to locate it more precisely if they do not come in person, but we can't underestimate the problem. It is Her Sword and it will attract Her Servants. We can build the strongest defences known to us and bury it in the entrails of the earth, but I fear the danger will come from outside."

Eddard ignored the headache he felt hearing these news. Fortunately, he had always intended to leave a strong garrison at Winterfell, both on the space and ground side, so it should be enough to deter the monsters as long as the Wall defences, the Night's Watch and the Northern forces about to be deployed held their positions.

"We have new sensors and new platforms, hopefully they will be sufficient to prevent another Fall of Pyke." Not that he intended to keep praying for luck. There were other research programs on the way and each day passed gave the Northern Navy a bit more time to become stronger and get ready for what was coming. "I suppose that except as a lighthouse for the Others the Sword is impossible to use?"

"I would not use this thing even if this was the last option available to us," the hate transmitted by the only Priest of Dispatos, Old God of Death, was not hidden at all. "This relic was forced in madness, hate, frost and insanity. Nothing good can come from it. Better the galaxy be consumed in flames and ice than let this cursed relic touch mortal hands."

"I am not sure I would go that far," told Bur, receiving a glare from his colleague. "But unless all other possibilities of victory have disappeared, I agree we can't use the Sword. I'm rather worried people who don't have our perspective and our knowledge will not see it this way, though."

"If the Abominable Relics are dispersed across this galaxy, we are in big trouble..." whispered one of the Green Priests though it was difficult to say who.

"How probable it is the Enemy has already intercepted them with its ice dragons?"

"Impossible to say but judging by the result of its attack against the tree-ship..."

Eddard let the discussion continue for a few minutes before interrupting them anew when it became clear it was leading nowhere.

"How many Relics are we speaking about?"

"We have the Sword and the ninth relic is not exactly...transportable," a middle-aged woman worshipping Nantosueltos replied. "That leaves the Horn, the Crown, the Ring, the Mirror-Orb, the Keys and the Grave unaccounted, if the Children have truly managed to steal them all."

Seven cursed artefacts were somewhere in this galaxy, and by the grim faces his advisors were showing, these things were probably as dangerous as the Sword, not less. If he met the genius behind this idea, Eddard was going to have a few words for him and it would not begin by 'thanks for your help'.

"Are there any reliable methods to detect them?" He asked, knowing by experience the next words were not likely going to bring hope.

"No and the existing methods are terribly dangerous for the caster." Yes, he hated being right. "However the cursed artefacts are not exactly subtle, Lord Stark. The moment someone begins using them, it will be all over the news from Sunspear to Last Hearth in days."

"And it will be beyond our ability to stop..." rumbled pessimistically one of the Priests.

The next minutes were used to prepare the contingencies. The Lord of Winterfell knew as he signed them they would not probably be enough. Agents were going to be trained to recognise the cursed artefacts and deployed across Westeros to ensure they did not fall in bad hands but they would be less than a thousand of them and the galaxy was a big place. Furthermore, should their intervention be required, it was going to be far behind enemy lines and with people far too ready to silence Northern spies.

He would have done to do more. He could not. There were too many resources absorbed by the war preparations, not enough Green Priests and too little time left to change his priorities. When it came down to it, he ruled a Sector of thirty billion souls with a Gross Systemic Product extremely low compared to the Western Sector. And he could not afford to accumulate the debts like some Southerner Houses were so fond of.

For a minute he mused about the measures he could have financed if he had Tywin Lannister's treasury and Mace Tyrell's manpower available to him. It was a nice dream...but it was all what it was: a dream. The other Sectors were not interested in reinforcing the Breach-in-the-Stars. At best, the Lords wrote back excuses and apologies, telling him in long and complicated words 'later'. At worst, they didn't write back.

They were all busy arming themselves for their next war and dividing future spoils. The notion of duty was unknown to them.

"And the egg?" He demanded, pushing aside for the moment his opinion of the Houses governing systems south of the Neck sub-sector.

"A powerful greenseer has linked the threads of fate of the dragon inside with your niece. For what purpose, we don't know."

Dragon's Doom howled behind him, abandoning for a few seconds the illusion he was an extremely large grey carpet.

"Like with the direwolves of your children, refusing the bond is...not advisable," a Priestess of Sironia with long dark hairs affirmed. "This is a powerful magical blessing and trying to break it would hurt both parties."

It was hard not to grit his teeth and remain composed. The more he learned about it, the less he liked magic. Not because he didn't trust the Green Priests, far from it: all the women and the men around the table had done their best to explain the intricacies of their abilities and they were loyal to the North.

The problem was that magic could not be easily quantified and the Order of the Green Priests was small and lacked power to deal against the greater threats. Magic did not answer rules like spatial battles did. And it was increasingly evident certain events were manipulated behind the scenes by unknown sorcerers and certainly not in his people's best interests. Supernatural skills were akin to unstable world-destroying bombs: you knew the power was real, but there was no manual and you never knew when it was going to blow up in your face.

"Very well," after all, the method to verify their judgement was rather simple...though the cost was likely to be significant for him and his family. "Deactivate your protections around the egg...and tell my niece to join us."

The shimmering veil around the sapphire-coloured object vacillated before disappearing completely and the temperature became fresher. Not enough to become truly unpleasant, but a few Priests adjusted their green cloaks and murmured incantations in the Old Tongue. The direwolf in the room became more agitated, and had to be given a piece of meat for calm to come back.

Ten seconds later, and his niece came in. As always when he saw her, Eddard was reminded of Lyanna. True, Lyanna had never had silver hairs – apart from her time in the snowball battles where she had been covered in white – but the visage and the grey eyes were the same. She and Arya had very close traits and it would be a lie the two had not become closer in the last years.

Today Baela was wearing the grey uniform with the white insignia of a Lieutenant. The white bird under the Stark sigil was indicated her specialty was in communications.

Slowly, Eddard stood and moved around the table, while Bur took the egg to place it in front of them.

"Are you sure?" He asked to the girl who he considered one of his daughters no matter what the official records said.

"The call is getting more pressing every night," the grey eyes were like those of Lyanna, determined and not a light of fear in them. "There was no direwolf to bond with me because I was not destined to be tied with the pack."

He could just offer a gesture of comfort and a poor smile at this. The fur balls were curious and extremely popular, not having one when the rest of the family had them was not a pleasant thing.

"There will be several Priests with you at Moat Cailin to watch over you." A firm gesture prevented any objection. "Everything I told your siblings about direwolves is magnified with this egg. This is not something you can wake up one day and abandon because you do not like it anymore. Magic aside, it will make you a symbol and a threat. Spiritually, it will be your partner and your animal counterpart."

He did not turn his head to acknowledge it, but he knew when Arya and Joanna entered without a noise followed by the rest of his family, Catelyn and the mother direwolf in tow.

"I am ready, Father." Despite is worry, he felt a burst of pride in his chest and the Baela removed her slim grey gloves.

She touched the egg.

For long and endless seconds, nothing happened. Somehow, Eddard prayed inwardly the Green Priests had been wrong and the dragon egg was going to stay as silent as for the Northerners who had been chosen to transport it away from its discovery place.

A futile hope instantly dashed as the moment after he had thought this, large cracks appeared on the sapphire surface and noises of scratching were heard. The fissures soon broke the egg from top to bottom and a muzzle rapidly emerged. The effect was immediate around the room. All the Green Priests without exception seemed to be surrounded by shimmering auras. The temperature became even colder and he could not stop a shiver.

From the now thoroughly destroyed egg, a cat-sized reptile was crawling out. Its scales had the delicate shade of the sapphires, the pupils of its eyes were silver and its small wings were of a lighter blue.

The baby dragon shrieked; a sound which was both wonderful and terrible. It was something which had not been heard for more than a hundred years and the rare books he had read on the subject did not do it justice. As it was not enough, all the direwolves in the room howled – or in the case of the pups, yapped – and the newborn ice dragon jumped into the arms of his mistress for protection.

"I name you Icefyre," said Baela in the middle of the infernal ruckus.

Eddard smiled and ordered his guards to go find more meat to come the turbulent animals while he opened the reserve where he locked his alcohol in this room. He had a feeling he was going to need a drink before the hour was over.

* * *

 **Tyrion Lannister, 15.07.300AAC, Casterly Rock System**

War Room Sixty-Two was not the favourite meeting place of the Generals and the Admirals of the Western Sector. First, it was small. At maximum capacity, you could invite three hundred people and it would be incredibly crowded, with senior officers forced to press themselves against the massive tactical display representing Westeros. Secondly, the lack of decorations and comfort tended to offend his Lord Father's greatest bannersmen and most influential cousins. Thirdly and it was the crucial factor, it was one thousand metres below the ground and roughly eighty kilometres away from the great headquarters of the Army and Navy on this planet. It was also next to Archive One-Four-Leopard-Tiger, a succession of rooms built for the sole and only purpose of gathering data on the Ibbenese Navy.

The number of conflicts between the Rock and this distant Essossi nation was exactly zero, and this Archive was only opened by the maintenance teams once per month. As such, the possibility of a curious noble or ambitious officer walking by was infinitesimal.

It was good, because the participants of the reunion today were working with very sensitive information. The kind they couldn't present in front of a holo-news commentator and hope to get away without answering some pointed questions.

Too bad his proposal to establish a whorehouse near it had been firmly rejected by higher powers. The wine cellars were also ridiculously small, by the way. Ah, this was the moment he was supposed to go back to the tactical display, no?

The systems of the Western Sector were shining brilliantly with red lights, each one symbolising warships, army formations, fortresses and other existing assets. Unfortunately, they were utterly dwarfed – what a hilarious pun – by the thousands of green, brown and golden lights representing the Reach, River and Crown military forces.

No need to be a military genius to realise they were facing an unfavourable rapport of force. And it was if he felt like telling it in a polite manner. Otherwise, the words 'we're completely buggered' would have been out of his lips at the first opportunity.

"When will the next wave of Reach hulls come out of the shipyards?" asked Ser Addam Marbrand. In his perfect red uniform, the young Vice-Admiral of Ashemark looked the Warrior Himself but his traits were worried this morning. For good reason, Tyrion knew.

"In eight months the battlecruisers they build at Westbrook, Highgarden and Cider Hall will be commissioned." He answered with the patience of someone who had already explained it to nine different committees. Father Above, he needed a drink. "The other major shipyards are a bit behind, except Brightwater Keep and Horn Hill which have different rotation programs. Their new ships of the line are still fourteen months away from completion."

"Will they be able to crew them adequately?" The visage of Field Lion Marshal Damion Lannister was sceptical. "I do not profess to be a specialist in naval matters, but I know of the difficulties Ser Kevan and the Board of Personnel have to find the hundreds of thousand men for our warships. The Reach Navy is already outnumbering us more than two-to-one, and they want to build more?"

The third and last member of their little conference shook the head to show his incredulity.

"The sources of Intelligence all tell us many obsolete hulls will be retired from service along with second-rate warships." Of course it wouldn't be a huge help, because both the old and new warships of the Reach were extremely manpower-intensive to manoeuvre. And the Crown classes were not exactly cheap in that department when he thought about it.

"So we need to strike them before they are ready."

Tyrion snorted loudly.

"I admire your enthusiasm, Ser Addam, but I don't think we have the forces to launch such an attack." He underlined with his small fingers the different systems which would have to be attacked for any plan to slow down the monumental build-up. "The capital ships are dispersed between Highgarden, Westbrook, Goldengrove, Oldtown, Cider Hall, Bitterbridge, Ambrose, Honeyholt, the Arbor and Old Oak plus a few others. And it bears to mention these systems are defended by squadrons largely outnumbering the entire Western Navy. Fighting the Tyrells in their own backyard is not a plan filling me with joy."

His Lord Father should be so proud, he had not uttered sentences like 'in this case we're utterly fucked', 'this plan has so few chances to survive I would prefer trying my chance against the Beast in duel' or 'what sort of venom your mother poured in your mouth when you were a kid'.

"I know," Addam looked like Jaime when he made this painful admission. The two of them were never happy to admit there was something they couldn't deal with. "But waiting for the Reach and the Crown Prince to begin the war on their terms is not something I find particularly endearing."

It was remarkable that no one made the slightest sign of pious denegation. Initially, the thousands of warships had been a large project to crush the Rebels of the Usurper's Rebellion sixteen years ago. But in the meanwhile, goals and alliances had changed. Now it was not for a war against Winterfell they were all preparing for, but a terrible and total conflict against their former allies.

"Assuming the war was declared this week, what would Mace Tyrell and our beloved King Rhaegar be able to send against us?" And yes, the irony was dripping in Damion's voice when he spoke the word 'beloved'.

"Ah..." Tyrion looked at a few data-slates purely for the appearances before giving the numbers. "If we combine the numbers of the Reach, Crown, Vale, Storm and River loyalists we have correctly identified, we arrive to the following numbers for the capital warships: nine super-battleships, two hundred and eighty-one ships of the line, thirty-eight armoured cruisers, five hundred and fifty-four battlecruisers and forty-one fleet carriers."

It did not count of course the hundreds of heavy cruisers, light cruisers, scout cruisers, light carriers and escort carriers in their enemies' arsenal. And as bad as it was, the new constructions the Tyrells were building as he spoke could double their effectives.

Despite himself, he felt something awful in his stomach when he uttered these numbers. The mightiest space engagement of the Usurper's War – the Battle of the Trident, in case you had been living under a rock for the last half-century – had involved no more than a hundred ships of the line on both sides and the devastation it had caused was still studied by millions of amateur tacticians.

"And the land forces?" The Army Marshal knew by his groan that he was not going to love it.

"If they are planning for a total mobilisation," and the Reach Lords probably would if the war lasted more than a couple of months, "they can muster the next best thing to nine billion men to storm our greatest fortresses."

The Board of Strategy and Planning, of which he was the second-in-command, had made all the necessary investigations and they had been verified countless times to see the analysts hadn't been hallucinating. Sadly, they were not. The magnitude of the sword prepared to crush the West was somewhat awe-inspiring...as long as you weren't on the receiving side.

"So as long as we are on the defensive, this war is unwinnable?" Addam demanded for confirmation, and Tyrion did it with a nod.

"Our supporters in the River Sector are Lords in their own right, but they can't unite their forces easily. Together the Freys, the Brackens and the Mootons could present a credible threat but House Darry will intervene to prevent it."

Together, they were likely buggered. Alone...they were going to be annihilated and administered a thorough spanking.

"In this case, I propose a new war plan called Vanguard," the Marbrand Vice-Admiral spoke. "I don't think I need to explain why our strategy to push by Deep Den is unadvisable."

The two Lannisters grimaced at the same time, although Tyrion was ready to bet his was the uglier of the two. The frontier stellar systems the River Sector had with the Reach had surrendered to the influence of House Tyrell with alarming alacrity when their emissaries arrived. Castlewood, Pemford, Atranta and Lychester: four systems which could not be trusted to choose neutrality when the fleets of the West wanted a safe path across the stars. In the case of Atranta, it was even worse: House Vance had not been forced to dismantle its orbital defences and had promised to send a sizeable percentage of its fleet to help their cousins of Wayfarer's Rest. They were visiting the Riverrun System as he spoke, a shield of steel able to rush wherever the Lannister forces attacked.

When one added to the fact the planets of Houses Chelsted, Cressey Stokeworth and Bywater were completely unreliable...the Deep Den-King's Landing travel had never been more dangerous.

They were other plans nonetheless. The current war plan his Lord Father and Uncle Kevan were tabling on right now was called Red Claws in the Barrel. For the brilliant observers who noticed this name didn't mean anything, congratulations you had won a warehouse full of Duff Beer barrels.

"And what is the concept of this...Vanguard?" The most infamous dwarf of Westeros – he had worked very hard to gain this title – asked while opening a bottle of wine and filling a golden cup with it. He had a feeling he was soon going to need it. For a reason he had found no explication for, Casterly Rock was full of staff and field officers who all believed the ideas in their thick skulls were the miraculous solution to beat the unending waves of the Reach.

"The first move is fairly straightforward," affirmed Ser Addam, looking recognisant Tyrion hadn't dismissed his plan before he had the chance to explain it. "We attack the system of Wayfarer's Rest with one battle-squadron of our new Victory class and support elements."

"This should give you, what six ships of the line and twelve battlecruisers against two River ships of the line and four battlecruisers?" There was genuine curiosity in the Marshal's voice now.

"Yes," agreed curtly the Heir of House Marbrand. "We will go straight after the planet, making sure the forces of House Vance have no choice but to fight us head-on no matter how bad the rapport of force is. And it will be very bad for them. Their forts and stationary defences are a shadow of what they were twenty years ago. My simulations give us complete victory and a final surrender from the surviving leadership of House Vance in less than fifteen hours."

Tyrion taped a few commands on the mentioned region of the River Sector. He studied it for a few seconds before opening his mouth again.

"You're trying to execute a variant of Operation Traitorous Shield," it was an affirmation, not a question.

The Vice-Admiral bowed slightly his head in approval.

"Indeed, though it differs on one critical point. Traitorous Shield plans for only House Tully warships to come to the rescue of their Vance allies. With Vanguard we bring enough carriers and tow several small forts in orbits to give the illusion we really intend to bring the system inside our sphere of defence."

It was not exactly difficult to guess how of the River Lords would react to this outrageous move. It was Damion Lannister who voiced it first.

"You want them to abandon the protection of Riverrun and charge to save Wayfarer's Rest." A shrug came from the Lannister serving in the Army. "The River fleet has lost a lot of its best elements and they don't have a commander like the Blackfish to help them. It might work. But..." Brown icons moved towards Riverrun before doing the jump to Wayfarer's Rest on the display.

"But our commander would be at a severe numerical disadvantage," finished Marbrand. "If the situation demands it, it will be a grand alliance of House Tully, Piper, Deddings, Goodbrook and surely Vance of Atranta coming for our squadron."

Tyrion had seen the hard numbers enough time to recite them in his sleep.

"Edmure Tully and his friends can gather within a week twelve ships of the line, twenty-four battlecruisers, hundreds of smaller cruisers and nearly three thousand starfighters. I suppose you don't intend to fight them with a small task force which will have already taken losses?"

House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest may have an empty-headed idiot as Heir, but given the simple choice offered to him, he was going to go down fighting and he had still teeth to bite. Two ships of the line and four battlecruisers was a respectable amount of firepower.

"No," the smirk of Vanguard's was impossible to miss and the tactical display zoomed completely on the Wayfarer's Rest System. A massive amount of brown warships rushed directly at the red units. The Western warships rapidly changed their formation for a fighting retreat, the River ships pursued...

"They are bait."

And then the display changed completely as three large formations of Western capital ships dropped their furtive systems and fired. One second, the Tully-allied warships had been triumphing. The next, they were encircled by thirty-six ships of the line in three twelve-strong groups.

The result could not be called anything but a massacre.

The first task force was stopping its false retreat and closed the distance again for the kill. The River ships fought well, but they were in a cauldron of explosions and they had only so many missiles tubes. In fact, knowing the last reports of Intelligence, Tyrion knew Marbrand had perhaps been too pessimistic in his simulation. Fire-control, sensors and missile range on the Royal Gift and Pelican classes – the brand-new ships of the line of the River Sector - were not that good.

The River fleet was torn apart. Due to their acceleration and their course, they could not avoid the Lannister capital ships anymore. The simulated enemy Admiral decided to order the retreat but during long minutes the warships sworn to Riverrun received a nightmarish beating.

Not a single River ship of the line survived and of the twenty-four battlecruisers, a single unit was still fighting. The percentage of survivors running to the Riverrun jump point was higher in the heavy cruisers and their lesser cousins, but 'better' did not mean good: three out of four were gone or surrendering.

"If the Tullys and rest of the Houses they can call upon are defeated like this, a third of the River Sector is ours for the taking." The words of Damion Lannister carried a certain amount of respect.

"Indeed," a new series of commands was entered on the console and Addam Marbrand continued his presentation. "According to the last reports, fourteen ships of the line represent twenty-seven percent of the River Sector's strength in their heaviest unit and the numbers are roughly the same for the battlecruisers and he screen."

The young Vice-Admiral returned the tactical display to an image of the River Sector.

"The Blackwoods and the Mallisters are firmly on the North's side; that's seven other ships of the line which are unavailable. Our allies have ten ships of the line to support us and will take the undefended systems in the back. Ten days into the war and the Darry-Whent fleet will be the only force of note able to oppose us in the River Sector."

Tyrion emptied his cup, savouring the taste of hill flowers in it. Inside, he was to admit the plan was thorough and well-thought. There were some points to redefine or to precise, but overall it was not an unreasonable strategy. Furthermore, the Darry-Whent alliance had always to look at a potential intervention of the North and the Vale. They couldn't easily deploy galactic-westwards.

Bah, time to play his favourite role of killjoy.

"The destruction of the River Lords space forces is of course something to rejoice in," he told the other two officers. "But every Lord and his grandmother know we can crush the Tullys at our leisure. Your method, Ser Addam, is one of the best we have at our disposal to deal a crushing blow to Riverrun and the bannersmen still following them."

Tyrion paused and the silence in the war room was almost deafening.

"No, the problem lies elsewhere. The moment half of our fleet invades the River Sector, the Reach and Crown forces we are supposed to ignore the existence of at Inchfield and High Chelsted will receive the message. Then it will be a matter of weeks before they unite into an invincible armada and force us to choose between an unwinnable battle and a shameful retreat.

We will have taken losses against House Tully and House Vance. We will need to land tens of thousands soldiers to eliminate all resistance at Pinkmaiden, Riverrun, Deddings and Kneeling's King. We will be in no shape to fight an enemy fleet of one hundred and twenty ships of the line with five super-battleships to lead them. And if the North and the Vale stays at home, it is entirely possible more loyalists will add their strength to the Darrys and jump into the melee."

In this case, they were royally screwed and the shiver he felt on his skin was not imaginary. For all the disgust he felt at certain members of House Lannister – names would stay out of the text but you could say it began at the very top of the Sector – Tyrion Lannister liked his head where it was. A location it had no guarantee to stay if the precious Crown Prince of King Rhaegar began the war everyone was awaiting since the Fall of Pyke.

"I can't say I disagree with the plans you've just raised, Lord Tyrion." Well, well, well Marbrand was extremely polite today. The Vice-Admiral must really have worked his strategy before this unofficial meeting. "But it is where phase two of Vanguard begins."

"Oh?" The second son of Lord Tywin Lannister drank his second wine cup. Seven Hells he was really interested now. "By all means, tell me more."

"We will make sure enough survivors of the first set of battles survive to have a good idea of our numbers before moving on to the Goodbrook System. This will make our squadrons a very enticing target to whoever is in command of the Reach fleet. And then...we spring the second trap."

Watching Ser Addam, it was too easy to remember the words of House Marbrand were 'Burning bright.'

* * *

 **Lord Varys Tivario, 17.07.300AAC, King's Landing System**

Sometimes he truly wished there were fewer enemies for him to worry about. It was increasingly difficult to find the time to deal with one threat before the next appeared to perform its special brand of mummery. It was also deeply frustrating. In the early 280s when Lord Tywin had still been hand and Aerys' madness had been at least slightly manageable, the interval between each crisis had been of several months. Under his son's rule, the problems were arriving each day and most of the time it was because the madman sitting on the Iron Throne had ordered something without bothering with the political implications or asking the opinion of his Small Council.

Take the recent departure of several members of the Royal family for example. Varys in his position as Master of Whisperers had known about it days before anyone else, but he had been unable to delay their travels. Now he had just to hope the Braavosi were feeling reasonable, the Northerners were not in a mood for a rematch of the Usurper's Rebellion and Dorne was not thinking about cutting the head of one Kingsguard and send it back for sole answer. There were also the thousands of machinations, little betrayals and murder plots continuing behind the scenes.

As a result yes, he was feeling a little anxious. The plans made with Rhaenyra had been somewhat flexible given the fractious nature of the opposition and how chaotic the next weeks were going to be, but he had not expected Rhaegar to be that stupid. An error he would not make again, he swore. Already new spy devices and human resources had been installed to watch over the crazy prophecy-lover. The first reports they had given were...not encouraging at all.

At a moment where the enemies he was supposed to warn the Council were becoming more competent, this was definitely one thing he would have preferred not to hear. But since he was not like the stupid birds of Essos hiding their heads into the sand to not see the danger coming, he was forced to deal with these massive problems...as much as his powers authorised him to, anyway.

"So the training ground of the 'Seven Sparrows' was in the Sloane System." This was really an unwelcome revelation, but at least now he knew why all his searches in the Crown Sector were leading nowhere.

"Yes, Lord Varys," replied his subordinate. Today the bland black-haired man answered to the name of Jon but the Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency was sure his spy could change his looks in a few minutes and disappear forever if given sufficient advance warning. "We were investigating some suspicious weapon deals by smugglers using old River weapons when we stumbled on them. The Seven Sparrows had almost abandoned the facility when we stormed it, though."

This was somewhat problematic, but less than being deaf and blind to the moves of these fanatics.

"Excellent work nonetheless, it is more information we have managed to gather on the terrorists than the rest of the kingdom." He would not point it out in front of the Small Council, but a few murmurs here and there would probably light some fires under the backsides of people who had been asleep when they were supposed to do their jobs. "Is there any indication Lord Sloane was involved?"

The Lord of the Sloane System was completely unimportant and had never been included into the formidable rearmament programs ordered by Highgarden and the Iron Throne. The only noteworthy feat about it was that it was both connected to the Tumbleton and Bitterbridge Systems. But if the man was really financing Seven-worshipping killers...

"There was no oral or written proof Lord Sloane was aware there were terrorists training for their illegal activities on his lands."

The Master of Whisperers nodded, slightly disappointed but not discouraged. He would have to add Lord Sloane to the list of potentially incompetent and/or treacherous nobles then. It wasn't like the list was empty these days and the man would not be the last to have his name added to it.

"I have not the time to search the entire Reach Sector with the limited resources I have." He told his senior Agent bluntly. "One way or another, you will have to secure the help of the Reach intelligence services operating in the compromised planets."

"This is going to be problematic," and Varys had an unpleasant feeling he was not going to like the news. "The Crown Prince has given new marching orders to his minions when he was at Bitterbridge a week ago. No official agent of any Westerosi intelligence service can operate outside his Sector without Prince Aegon's seal."

This was the kind of stupidity which a few years ago would have left him breathless. It was a sad thing that these days he was able to shrug and carry on when the initial moment of surprise had passed.

"In this case, continue your investigation with your cell...but consider this meeting your unofficial notification to begin Operation Bard's Tale."

The eyes of his spy widened for a moment before his usual bland visage was restored, proof his subordinate had known the situation had become sufficiently grave the era of operating in everyone's sight was nearly over.

"We may need some money to compensate the losses of the last operation but apart from this, we are as ready as we can be, my Lord."

"I will see what I can do," he promised, inwardly sighing at the difficulty he had to pay correctly his employees when certain corrupt Lords were sinking billions and trillions in gigantic projects of no strategic value. Even if he hadn't been a Blackfyre loyalist, the pitiful income the Crown Intelligence Agency received would have ensured his swift betrayal of the Targaryen dynasty. "Send your report to the V-4 centre before going silent."

The black-haired spy nodded and marched out of the casino room they had been meeting in. Varys imitated him two minutes later, after ensuring there would be no holographic or physical evidence he had ever been there. Not that he was overly worried because he would never be back there in his spy persona. Of all the protocols of his profession, the one imposing an intelligence agent to always use a different place was one which made the most sense. It wasn't convenient to organise in a hurry, but enemies had rarely the occasion to prepare the terrain against you if you were always on the move.

The night was warm and noisy when he came back out an abandoned alley and began a late walk on the Conciliation Street. Despite the late hour, many shops were still opened. King's Landing City was truly a megalopolis which never slept. It was polluted, ugly, and filled with highborn too ambitious for their own good.

It was going to burn and this time he was not going to stop it. With Bard's Tale, the majority of the men and women loyal to him were going to disappear in the shadows and their priceless reports would go to House Blackfyre. There was one month left, maybe two in an optimistic scenario, before he abandoned his job.

"It seems so calm," he whispered to himself as he watched the lights of the skyscrapers and the aerial vehicles in the distance. "But it is always like this before the first shots of a new war."

There would be no trumpet to herald an apocalyptic conflict in the reality they were living in. There was not going to be a Great Council to deal with the endless grievances of every Sector. The negotiations of last-minute had no chance of achieving anything when the Targaryens had proven their word was worthless.

He could not stop it. All these months of desperate struggling and deals in dark rooms had just delayed the start of the war.

The future was darker than the capital's blackest nights...and Vaelor Blackfyre smiled.

"At last, we are going to have our revenge..."

* * *

 **Lieutenant Joanna Snow, 17.07.300AAC, Moat Cailin System**

The view around Moat Cailin was impressive when the Stark transport finished its journey sixteen hours after its translation in-system. The ugly ball of green that most people called 'Death World' had not changed at all since their last visit with Father. On the other hand, the number of warships in orbit around it had.

It was still far from the official reviews of the fleet at Winterfell which had taken place over six months ago but no one impartial could watch this gathering of starships and not give it the name 'fleet'.

First, there were the lords of the void, the ships of the line. Only a single squadron was present, but these eight warships were all of the new _Inferno_ class and less than four years old.

In second came the armoured cruisers, the long-range strikers of the wall of battle. Between the _Robert Baratheon_ , _Brandon Stark_ and _End of Glory_ classes, there were thirty-two of them. This was four complete squadrons and according to the latest exercises one squadron had the firepower to annihilate half of the River Navy.

The forty battlecruisers completed the picture of the capital ships. All were all-rounded designs; the _Dreadnought_ , _Lyanna Stark_ , _Builder_ and _Direwolf_ classes were hulls built and armed for war.

All in all, it was a solid and flexible capital force able to demolish easily ten times its tonnage when they unavoidably moved in the direction of the galactic south.

When it came to the escorts, the situation was a bit less brilliant. There were only thirty-two heavy cruisers, forty-eight light cruisers and forty scout cruisers. The carrier force was also extremely light, even by Northern standards: one fleet carrier, five light carriers and twenty escort carriers. The North should have been easily able to send twice that many hulls for an eventual revenge against the Iron Throne...if they were not forced to adopt the perilous strategy of fighting a war on two fronts.

Inside her mind, Joanna cursed the Others. Could the undead abominations not have waited twenty years for their grand return? A generation later and Westeros would not be ruled by the Rapist anymore. Ten years and they would have at the very minimum reformed the former River-Vale-Storm-North alliance and brought the force of four entire Sectors against the Enemy.

But it was not to be and whereas the entire Northern Navy had – according to information which was in theory far, far over her Lieutenant pay – thirty-nine ships of the line in active service, only eight had been sent here to create the core of what was going to become the new Twelfth Fleet.

The starships encircling Moat Cailin like a terrible spiral were still a considerable force. The warships aside, there were hundreds of transports, ammunition auxiliaries, hospital ships, mobile reparation yards and every category of supply starship required for a proper fleet train. If the forts, the minesweepers, the asteroid bases and the hundreds of starfighters permanently assigned to the defence of the stellar system were not enough, the Army and the Marines had also huge garrisons ready to give any invader a welcome they would never forget.

Moat Cailin was of course not impossible to take. Joanna had made a few war games with Robb however, and assuming Father and Lord Manderly had not kept any nasty surprises out of the briefings – and they had, she would bet her direwolf and her yearly pay on it – the South would lose a minimum of three hundred ships of the line before the Northern space defences crumbled.

The Lords of Highgarden and Casterly Rock of course had proven they were perfectly ready to drown their enemies in an ocean of Westerner and Reacher blood to win, Pyke had proved this beyond doubt.

But Moat Cailin was not Pyke. The extensive reports of the White Harbor, Mormont and Bolton expeditionary forces had not been shy to reveal 'King' Balon Greyjoy had before the Greyjoy Rebellion a small budget to consolidate his redoubt, given that he expended billion after billion of gold dragons to build his short-lived 'Iron Fleet'.

The North had not this problem, at least not to this degree.

If the elite forces of the Rose, the Lion and the Dragon came, the death swamps of the Moat would be their mass grave. Millions of Crusader's bones and armours had been absorbed by this putrid atmosphere in the last millennium, House Stark and the North would be happy to add a few more Targaryen Legions to the ancient records.

Her direwolf Phantom chose this moment to jump in her arms, and the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the North winced under the sheer weight her companion had managed to gain in the last days. The old stories and records on direwolves had contained information the veterinary were not sure to believe at first...but their legendary growth was by Roboros not exaggerated...they may be minimising the truth, truth to be told.

Phantom had been a very little white ball of fur when she had taken him for the first time in her arms under the vigilant gaze of the gigantic mother direwolf. But right now, he had the size of an adult middle-sized dog...and she was forced to put him back on the ground, because no matter how fluffy his white fur was, the direwolf was becoming heavier day after day.

"Next time sister, keep your white wolf away when I try to give Icefyre a bath," growled Baela as she arrived in the observation bay with a shrieking ice dragon in her arms, a scene which seemed to amuse the household guards charged of their protection to no end.

"I will keep it in mind," she said a disappointed glance to Phantom, but the white-furred cousin of the wolves proved once more his hearing was absolutely perfect. The long ears were lowered, the red eyes were looking in the opposite direction and the young direwolf rolled had rolled on its back as soon as the word 'bath' had been uttered.

"So this is Twelfth Fleet," Baela said once she had dislodged Icefyre from his or her place – no one knew how to discover the sex of a dragon - and she watched the scenery Joanna had enjoyed for the last minutes. "Father has not skimped on the armoured cruisers for this force."

"It's not like he has a lot of choice...the ships of the line are going to be used for far bigger preys."

Evidently, from the lowest soldier to Father himself every Northern soldier hoped the concentration of the most powerful assets available to Winterfell, the Dread Fort, White Harbor and the rest of the North was going to be massive overkill. Unfortunately, given the first incoherent mumblings of the first wildlings emerging from the Eye of Woe, it was improbable.

"I'm sure this why a newly promoted Vice-Admiral got Twelfth Fleet," shrugged her silver-haired sibling. "One more squadron of ship of the line and the Admiralty would have put Lord Bolton, a Glover or a Manderly in charge."

"Vice-Admiral Davos Seaworth has proved his loyalty and his competence," she told Baela more vehemently than she had wanted to.

"Someone has a crush on our new commander," chanted Baela as she tried to stop a blush from appearing on her visage. Old Gods damn it, it was not because she admired the tactics and the doctrine of their new superior that she had to tease her with it!

"I will remind you of this when you will need to achieve the communication section's best scores and maintain your equipment in perfect condition for the next watch." The not-so mature reply consisted in sticking out the tongue, really funny since the baby ice dragon tried to do the same thing with the long appendage natural evolution had gifted the dragons.

More than once she wondered why Baela was going into communications. With her grades at the Winterfell Academy she could have largely taken one of the top spots in tactical, and this was acknowledged by every officer or non-commissioned spacemen as the fastest way to command a starship.

"Any progress with the contact-meditation?" The daughter of Ashara Dayne asked. Her own mental bond with Phantom was progressing very slowly...the aptitude certainly looked useful and was the only sure way to control a big direwolf, but it certainly wasn't easy.

"No, none at all," Grey eyes watched the dragon and the direwolf staring at each other in a show of dominance. "The Green Priests thought it was worth a shot, but it doesn't look like the dragons have the same inner capacity to forge the bonds like direwolves do." Baela rolled her shoulders though Joanna could tell she was slightly apprehensive. Without warging, your animal companion could only answer your words and your gestures: not too bad for an air transport-sized direwolf but very, very problematic for an ice dragon able to swallow a herd of elk for appetiser.

"We will find a solution," she promised.

"Well, it's not too bad," amended the sole dragon-owner of Westeros. "At worst, I will be stuck at Moat Cailin for the better part of the next decade..."

* * *

 **Ser Preston Greenfield, 26.07.300AAC, Braavos System**

Preston didn't like Braavos. He didn't like the Braavos System, full of greedy merchants and billionaires who had nothing in mind but gaining more money when they would never be able to spend the content of their purses in a hundred years. He didn't like Braavos' Masque, the only inhabited planet of the Braavos System. It was a sea world and he had just discovered he hated sea worlds. The ground was always moving, you were on gigantic boat-cities which were sailing forever the endless oceans and the storms were so bad he had been what they called 'sea-sick' for the better part of yesterday.

He didn't like Braavos City, sea capital of the feared Braavosi Republic. There were too many architectural styles, it was giving him nausea. You could enter a square and see at a Ghiscari-inspired pyramid in the centre, an ancient Westerosi building on the left, a gigantic Lysene palace on the right and different ostentatious houses imitating the Valyrian houses between them. There was no coherence in this cacophony of styles and colours. Gold, silver, brown, pink, red, blue and green could be watched on one street and then come back ten minutes later. Unlike the better quarters of King's Landing, there were no large avenues or something looking like an orderly plan. The Braavosi had used a massive irrigation system to transform their ship-city into a city of canals. The final result looked like a maze and Preston could safely say that without satellites and air support to give a relatively accurate map, an army or two could lose themselves in this labyrinth.

Despite all these faults, it was evident Braavos City was a very prosperous place. The streets were pristine and the old-fashioned grey cobblestone under their feet was well maintained. In a forty minutes excursion, they had seen the offices of over seventy banks and twenty-five cartels. At every corner of a street the name of companies and industrial forces renowned from Volantis to Gulltown were visible. Men and women in suit and long robes lunched on terraces with view on the great canals. It would have been unimaginable for most of King's Landing, where the pollution was so dense it was openly discouraged to eat in open air. The ruckus caused by air-cars and other motorised methods of transportation was utterly absent. On the Braavosi city-islands, the only way to move from one point to another was your feet.

It was this last point which made the lone Kingsguard really unhappy. The combination of narrow streets and people of all social classes walking in the same streets was making their progression a security nightmare. In his authority as Prince Joffrey's head of security, Preston had politely requested their Braavosi contacts to land with a hundred guards. This had been refused. The Western-born Kingsguard could be wrong, but he was reasonably sure the gold-thirsting Essossi had been laughing in private afterwards at the idea of denying his recommendations one after the other. In the end, ten people had been authorised to disembark...and the ten included Preston and the Prince himself.

Last despicable measure, the only weapons they had been able to take with them were vibro-blades and not the ones Westerosi Knights found useful to train or to battle with. From Casterly Rock to the Eyrie, soldiers used durasteel-forged weapons whether they were two-handed or bastard blades. These weapons were large and in theory supposed to last a few years if they were cared for properly. The Braavosi used different alloys with a freaking mini force-field to forge slim toothpicks they had the gall to call 'rapiers'.

He didn't like the weapon hanging to his side, only good for an ambush in a dark street or two before breaking when an armoured opponent smashed it. To his surprise, it was the Hound who had been the loudest to protest this change. The other Westerner had not liked at all exchanging his large blade for a 'girl's dagger'. His words, not Preston's.

Judging by the scowl Sandor Clegane was harbouring as he led the way in the crowded streets, his wrath was not calmed in the least. But then the Hound was not here to be pretty and nice. After several assassination attempts two years ago, Lord Tywin Lannister had decided his grandson needed a dangerous watchdog and his choice had stopped on the younger brother of the Beast. So far it was an outcome Preston and the rest of the detachment assigned to protect Prince Joffrey had reasons to regret. Sandor Clegane's face was horrifying to watch and the man was as foul-mouthed as a smuggler of Fleabottom, but the man was a born-killer when he had something sharp in his hands and all attempts since then were ended brutally and mercilessly.

"I think we are close to the Academy's Square," said Prince Joffrey, his brilliant green eyes suddenly becoming visible as he lowered the large map he had kept open the moment they set foot on Braavos' Masque.

Several murmurs of relief were voiced in the small Westerosi column. The envoys of the Sealord had ran away as soon as they could get away with it and Preston was not ashamed to say none of his party had the orientation skills to navigate into the Braavosi maze.

"This is far nicer than the palaces of King's Landing," mused the Prince, though the Kingsguard was unaware if he talked to him or to Clegane. "Maybe I will come back with Barbara once Aegon's marriage will be celebrated. I think she will like the place..."

"Of course, my Prince," Preston Greenfield answered, though personally Braavos was far from the destination of his dreams. For sure, the sums demanded by the restaurants and the hotels here could be classified as high-class robbery. This shouldn't be an issue, ultimately. With the King's tendency to piss off every foreign nation and his bannersmen, the odds of Prince Joffrey being authorised to visit regularly Braavos were close to non-existent.

They passed before a temple to the God of Waves and Storms in the mean time. Because Braavos had not only thousands of warships, a considerable space merchant navy and a governmental system which made no sense for anyone who was not Braavosi, they had also thousands of Gods worshipped here. Seven, Old Gods, Rhoynar deities and Essossi pagan creatures...if you thought about a divinity, then it was surely worshipped at Braavos. Had Aegon the Conqueror or any other King tried this religious diversity through the last three hundred years, the result would have been unimaginable violence on a galactic scale but the Braavosi made it work somehow.

"Thank the Father, we didn't come during the masquerade..." grumbled one of the rare Crown-born guards he had kept in the inner guard of Prince Joffrey. The Kingsguard made a nod of approval. The Masquerade of Braavos was famous – or infamous depending on your point of view on masked feasts – all around the galaxy. Ten days of feast where the city-ships of Braavos gathered around the Titan, a colossus built on one of the rare rocks above the sea existing on this planet. And at midnight on the tenth day, everyone removed his or her mask, celebrating therefore the Uncloaking of Braavos.

Needless to say, the affluence, the prices practised by the merchants and the duels fought for the courtesans were skyrocketing during this period. But the celebrations had been nearly five Westerosi-standard months ago and today Braavos was calm. Or as calm as Braavos was supposed to be anyway. There was none of the constant inter-gang fighting which was so problematic at King's Landing, but it didn't mean the Essossi city was not dangerous in its own way.

"Ah, the Academy is here," commented the young Targaryen as dozens of men and women went to the right, revealing a construction which had the shape of a red-coloured palace with gigantic statues. "Prince Joffrey Targaryen and his escort," the King's son told the two guards blocking the small way between two canal which was the only land access. "We're expected."

After a few seconds where the Hound glared ferociously at the two men – who were completely unfazed by it to the Westerosi's guard amusement – the ceremonial halberds were lowered and the Braavosi soldier spoke in a bored tone suggesting he had repeated the same sentence today.

"The Prince can enter. One bodyguard only," and while Clegane grumbled, the hard black eyes of the man showed no sign of contrition. Preston whispered some rapid orders to the ear of his second before following his charge.

The walk from there was not long and before their eyes, the Sea Academy, the first University ever built on the artificial soil of Braavos City was revealed in its full glory. The impression of a red-coloured palace when he had looked at it first was not wrong. The Braavosi had built this building with the pomp and splendour the bankers, merchants and elites of the Republic saved for their precious progeny. The entrance was under a great archway where diverse legendary creatures were sculpted, they climbed two stairs and finally they arrived in an immense courtyard.

It was then Preston realised the magnificence outside was literally nothing for the masters of the Braavos System. The ground and dozens of antique columns had been built in a light purple stone which had all the appearance of marble. A huge fountain the height of five men was in the centre, with many mermaids sculpted at the top and on the surroundings. A large garden with thousands of blooming flowers was proving a heart of nature and on the outskirts the Braavosi architects had reproduced a small Valyrian forum.

It was there the majority of the students were concentrated as he and the Prince observed the new environment. Unlike King's Landing or the Rock, the students certainly didn't wear a uniform and their traits were extremely varied. Some boys and girl had Westerosi looks, but there were teenagers with the dark skin of the Summer Sector, the bronzed visage of the Dornish and even a few Yi-Ti young adults.

"And this is why the high rate of interest our banks impose to the Princedom of Pentos is in fact harming us more than it restricts the Pentoshi economy. It is not a world-ending truth that the rivals of the Republic are always finding new ways to evade the First Law and the terms imposed by the last war they lost."

"Lies, I say!" retorted a muscled young man in blue-silver clothes who had jumped on his feet like his life depended on it. "If Pentos try to evade the reparations and enslave more men and women, they must pay the price! The laws of the Republic come first and we mustn't tolerate the machinations of the Pentoshi! Braavos is becoming stronger and this strength comes from our freedom!"

The debate was...well-spirited. For the life of him, Preston couldn't remember heirs and Heiresses of the nobility speaking like this in public when they were at court. Not when it came to criticize the policy of the Iron Throne at any rate. In private, yes there were a lot of people doing it – including the Prince next to him – but the official audiences in front of the Hand of the King were not like this. If someone contradicted Lord Whent like this, the Hand of the King would certainly throw the dissenter off court for a few weeks.

"And I say breaking the wheel like you want is not the solution," said in a patient reply the young woman who had been speaking at first. Her dark blue robe was of a style he had often seen in the streets of Braavos City in the last hours, her visage was quite seducing and her hairs were...silver. "Pentos is not as isolated as they were fifty years ago. Their ties with Tyrosh and Myr have never been stronger and the last thing the Republic needs at the moment is to trigger a general war across the Narrow Void. Gives peace a chance, blood and war only create more enmities."

"Maybe I should hire her to give speeches in my place," Prince Joffrey seemed to have understood far more quickly than him who was speaking and the Prince applauded with the other students as the tirade ended.

"I don't think the King and the Small Council would approve of talks supporting republicanism," he warned the son of Queen Cersei. Anti-slavery should be fine, since the Seven Sectors had all signed the conventions forbidding genetic slavery and the like, but there was far more to Braavos than their stance against slavery.

Prince Joffrey didn't answer and waited for the crowd to disperse to approach the small forum and his violet marble. The very reason they had come to Braavos was waiting for them. Preston was not surprised. As much as they had not shouted or provoked a riot when they had arrived in the courtyard, there were adults serving as security services and he had also noted several modern defences lasers behind the statues. Besides, a knight in white armour and a silver-haired Prince in all likelihood were not seen every day, Academy of Braavos or not.

"My Aunt," Joffrey bowed largely, making the small group of girls who were watching the scene with attention giggle. "It is a pleasure to see you and your beauty. Your voice-"

"Tell what you have to say and leave," the visage of Princess Daenerys Targaryen, only sister of King Rhaegar, was showing absolutely no happiness at the sight of her nephew. It was a pity, because frankly the Princess was really a beauty. The Kingsguards had a lot of opportunities to see noblewomen and top-models at King's Landing, but Daenerys was beating them without trying with her pure silver-hairs and her perfect violet eyes. She had none of the martial stance of Princess Visenya and she had abandoned the last signs of childhood Princess Shiera kept. Added to that, her dark blue robe was sufficiently conservative to not be included in the courtesan category but there was enough cleavage and legs showed to reveal her flawless body. Assuredly, if there was an air-race contest or a starfighter tournament, the participants would not wait long to proclaim her Queen of Love and Beauty.

"Very well," for many observers it would have been impossible to discern, but Preston had been next to the grandson of Lord Tywin thousands of hours in the last decade. He could see the signs of disappointment in the Prince's behaviour. "Your Royal Brother, the King of Westeros, has ordered your return."

"Oh, really?" A smirk appeared on the Princess' lips as if she knew something truly humorous and they didn't. "I must suppose then he has agreed to spend the tens of trillions dragons negotiated with the Sealord ten years ago. The treaty was clear: either the Iron Throne paid the reparations for the attack on a Lorath ship, or a Prince or a Princess of Targaryen blood was fostered at Braavos..."

There was no falsehood in her tone, no attempt to complicate things. It was the raw truth...and now Preston understood why the Small Council had not been informed of the official reason for this little Braavosi expedition. There was going to be hell to pay when they came back to King's Landing...

"What." Apparently, Prince Joffrey had not been aware of this too.

The expressions on their faces must have been comical, for the Princess laughed loudly, it was pleasant to hear...apart from the fact she was rejoicing in their lack of information.

"You didn't know." It was not a question. "He sent you there like errand boys and you didn't know." Princess Daenerys seized with her right hand a rather large bag before looking at her relative with something like pity.

"I wish I could say I'm surprised, but every time the Braavosi media comment on Westerosi politics, it's to explain another imbecility of the King and his allies." A small chuckle came to her pale lips. "He is getting madder."

"He is still the King, and his orders are law," the Kingsguard could not miss the fact Joffrey didn't bother denying these accusations. "You have been ordered to return to the capital, my Aunt."

Far from being angered, the purple eyes had obviously amusement in them.

"If I return, it will be with a Braavosi fleet and they will want to install me as Queen," the statement did not seem to please her at all. "Several factions of the Senate and the Lower Assembly want a good war to expand their commercial interests. Pentos is the lead candidate, but if the King insists to continue this idiocy..."

Preston had a disagreeable feeling this wasn't a joke. Could the Braavosi think they could get away with a coup? It was true King Rhaegar and popularity were not compatible words, but there were powerful Lords behind the scenes each having invested a lot of money and influence in their own claimants. Braavos, for all the might of its invincible Deep Space navy, was rather lacking in conventional spaceships and ground armies...

"I will not obey when millions of lives are at stake," Princess Daenerys Targaryen, last child of the defunct King Aerys, declared to her nephew. "I will not help this madman begin the war his diseased soul craves. I will stay at Braavos, per the treaty stipulations...and if he has something to tell me, he can very well do it in person."

Knowing King Rhaegar like Preston did, it sounded like an idea best avoided at all costs.

* * *

 **Ser Jaime Lannister, 28.07.300AAC, Sunspear System**

Their arrival at Planky Town yesterday had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. For the duration of their journey in the Narrow Void, he had wondered if he was not making a mistake by using another warship than his beloved _White Paw_. These doubts had been silenced the instant the displeasure of the Dornish population to their arrival had manifested itself.

Six assassination attempts had been made on him in four hours of reception and greetings. Fourteen Crown soldiers had died in various 'accidents' and he knew the number would have risen only higher the longer they stayed.

Yes, it had been a wise decision to let the men who had followed him in years after years of boring inspections to stay at home with their families and friends. The King had ordered him to go to Dorne, but it did not mean he had to sacrifice good soldiers for no good reason.

Obviously, should he go back to King's Landing breathing and in one piece, people would wonder why he had taken the _Crown of Crocodiles_ , one of the new Blue Swordfish-class battlecruisers built at the capital and specialising in Deep Space duties. The answer was simple. This crew had the lowest performance records of all the potential warships which had been available when the King had given his orders. The captain of this hull was Ser Roger Wardfire, of the Masterly House of Wardfire sworn to House Langward – and no, he hadn't known this fact before coming aboard. The man loved listening to the sound of his own voice.

Given how House Langward was licking the boots of Prince Aegon at every opportunity, Jaime had thought the powers-that-be were not likely to protest if he took a ship full of spies. He had been right, though he didn't think they would smile if he explained to them he had demanded this ship because its destruction would not harm the influence of House Lannister in the Crown Fleet.

Ser Roger Wardfire might have been a good space officer a few decades ago. Might. In all likelihood, there was more chance the pigs would fly tomorrow, the Dornish would suddenly apologise for their rude behaviour and the King was going to give sane orders to his Small Council. In truth, the Senior Captain's career had stalled in 288AAC when he had been caught negotiating the moves of his patrols in the Narrow Void with a Tyroshi slaver.

Ser Roger Wardfire had survived the following court-martial thanks to his family connections, but it had stopped his rapid climb in the fleet's hierarchy and by the sound of it, he was making everyone but his corrupt body responsible of his disgrace. A few pointed questions to one of two Admirals owing him a few favours, and Jaime knew the dealings with slavers were not a thing of the past for this slime.

If this had been the Western navy, the Kingsguard would have probably gotten away with spacing him out of an airlock, but as it was, he had figured the man could enjoy the legendary Dornish hospitality with him.

The _Crown of Crocodiles_ had in its living quarters, hangar bays and weapon control rooms many scumbags taking example on the master of the ship. He would not mourn their demise, and already fourteen out of a complement of two thousand eight hundred men were no longer of this galaxy.

And escorted by no less than three squadrons of Martell heavy cruisers, they were in high orbit around Sun's Radiance, the single inhabitable planet of the Sunspear System. The real problems were about to begin.

"We are authorised to land, Ser Jaime," no animal but a sloth could have considered the tone employed by Roger Wardfire's martial and motivated. His gold uniform was wrinkled and the political officer supposed to maintain a correct level of discipline and loyalty aboard was more or less of the same cloth.

"In this case, please prepare my shuttle Captain," he commanded with a flat expression. "It would be unwise to make the Dornish wait."

Several men-at-arms and junior Lieutenants shivered, proof some of the crew had at least some self-preservation instincts. Good, they were going to need them.

The progression to 'his shuttle' was made in silence. The men preceding him who were clad in the red and black of House Targaryen looked nervous...maybe they understood now how insane the entire idea was. The gold uniforms were showing even grimmer expressions.

Without one more word, his escort and he entered the shuttles bound for the surface. There were ten of them in all prepared for what was an ordinary void-ground flight. There should have been more, but the good captain – and yes, Jaime was sarcastic there – had announced him there were 'occasional difficulties' with some of them and that the stock of spare parts for certain flyers had not been 'properly counted' by the shipyards of King's Landing. Translation: Roger Wardfire and his officers were not doing their jobs and had sold the spare parts to other captains or on the black market to fill their purses.

Once they left the ship, they had a proper view of Sun's Radiance, capital planet of the Dorne Princedom. In high orbit like this, it didn't look so bad. There was a large blue ocean, two large continents looking like two spears and a multitude of islands. From his talks with Prince Lewyn an eternity ago, Jaime knew Sun's Radiance possessed some fantastic beaches on these heavenly locations, which attracted very wealthy Essossi magnates for weeks of leisure and detente. In the hinterlands, great mountains provided an endless playing field for those who loved climbing. There was never enough snow for proper ski stations; the planet was too close from the sun for these sorts of activities.

But the further they descended, the better the Kingslanders and every man aboard the shuttle could see the big issue. The coasts looked divine, the mountains were high and noble...but between them, there was something everyone with two brain cells knew when 'Dorne' was uttered.

"The desert," groaned someone in the back of the shuttle. Jaime didn't even bother turning his head.

"The desert," he agreed. There was no description needed for the horrors it conjured in their minds were far more than adequate. In two wars against the Seven Sectors, the Westerosi population had learned well from depressed veterans the terrible suffering these wastes could inflict on a modern force.

It did not stop the whispers to begin around him.

"I heard the Dornish are throwing everyone in a bath of scorpions and they torture those who survive," said a twenty name day brown-haired youngster, his face livid.

"Their women are milking the snakes of their venom and pouring it in the drinks of the foreigners," a bulky warrant officer escalated with no sense of mockery in his behaviour.

"They are treacherous and bury alive in the sands the soldiers challenging them in duel."

"They betray you the moment you have your back turned."

"They tie you to a rock and let the vultures prey on your body."

The sentences became more and more ridiculous until the Chief Petty Officer piloting the shuttle broke the exchange by announcing worrisome news.

"The Dornish are telling us to divert our course for a third-rate starport." There was definitely fear in the man's voice.

"Maybe they want to avoid the riots and violence which happened at Planky Town," He replied on his private channel, knowing that unfortunately each and every one of the men near him could hear him talk.

"Maybe," but the pilot didn't sound convinced. To be honest, Jaime was not either.

As the shuttle landed with the usual braking and landing shock and they were allowed to leave their transport, this impression was more than confirmed. The Crown delegation was...in the middle of nowhere. The ten shuttles from their battlecruiser were landing on the usual hard and smooth surface used by all the starports in this part of the galaxy, but there was literally nothing around them.

There was sand and an arid terrain no matter the direction you stared at. There was no vegetation of any kind. There was no water and relatively few signs of human infrastructure. An old grey watchtower was about two or three kilometres away, and it looked the structure had stood for the better part of the last two centuries without major renovations. And it was hot, terribly hot under this hard sun. The blonde-haired Kingsguard congratulated himself to not have come in full armour. Temperature-regulation systems or not, he would probably have collapsed under this hard sun.

Jaime could see that for the proud Targaryen guards, this was a very cold shower – and not just because they were sweating a lot in this warm atmosphere. They had obviously expected to be greeted by the nobles of Sunspear in a majestic ceremony where delirious crowds, music and splendour would have been the master themes. Being debarked in the middle of nowhere had not entered their minds.

"This is an insult! This will not be tolerated!" snarled the leader of the black-red guard which had surely been ordered by the imbeciles of King's Landing to report scrupulously every move he did. "Ser Jaime I suggest we return to the _Crown_..."

The Targaryen guard did not have the seconds to finish his protestations. Swift and agile, the Dornish newcomers arrived in manoeuvres their bulky shuttles would have not been capable. Orange aerial vehicles roared over their heads in an improvised spectacle before landing one by one.

It did not escape him that their hosts were encircling them, not forming a line before them. And then Jaime made several steps back as a massive flyer released a massive amount of black substance mere metres away from the Targaryen vanguard.

"Flee! They are releasing scorpions!" screamed one of the young spacemen.

"No it's shit!" exclaimed a grey-bearded Warrant Officer.

The fetid odour which reached their noses in the next seconds proved the experience of veterans was invaluable. This was indeed shit...and it was assaulting all their senses violently.

"These Dornish are humiliating us!" growled threateningly the same Targaryen officer, not realising about twenty men behind him in gold uniform were exchanging some coins after each of his interventions.

"I'm afraid they are just warming up..." said another trooper, pointing his hand in the direction of several columns of orange uniforms. Jaime narrowed his eyes; unless he was mistaken the men were unrolling the traditional red carpet so why...oh, no, no and no.

The Dornish soldiers...they were...they were pissing on the carpet after it was unrolled.

"This is treason!" snarled the Targaryen Captain, his hand trying to draw his blade, only to be stopped by Jaime's intervention.

"Don't draw your sword or any of your weapons," he whispered in the ear of the dragon's minion. "The moment you do it, we are all dead!"

The man chosen by the high authorities of King's Landing tensed visibly but didn't move. What a relief, they were less than two hundred guards, spacemen and pilots of the Crown Sector against perhaps five or six times that number of Dornish soldiers.

His party was alone, with lightly armed shuttles and only a battlecruiser as potential reinforcement in the middle of the hellishly hot Dornish desert. Their possible opponents were...the entire Dornish Army and Navy. This was not the Western battle-squadrons, but the son of Lord Tywin knew they were up to the job of tracking and eliminating his group.

"Your orders, Ser?" his shuttle pilot asked.

"We wait," Jaime answered. "They want to make us furious, don't give them this pleasure. And share the water gourds we have, this sun is giving us all headaches."

It was the hard truth. The Crown-born men were suffocating under the Dornish sun and the odious smells of shit and various excrements. By all means, the reputation of the Dornish hospitality was well-founded.

The next minutes were long, very long. Jaime would have loved to tell the Dornish behind this series of dark jokes had finally stopped their awful pranks but this would be a lie. Several abominable acts against public decency were performed in front of them, pink paint with animal entrails was thrown on top of their shuttles and flags supposed to represent dragons were used as an alternative of paper toilet.

Jaime had lost his devotion for the Iron Throne a long time before this day, but he had to admit these provocations shook severely his discipline more than once. Moreover, the fact he was not in battle-armour did not stop him from being disagreeably sweaty and tired. Sun's Radiance had really an unpleasant climate compared to the Storm Sector planet he had visited beforehand.

Last but not the least of the humiliations they had to endure, their delegation had to walk on the red carpet, under the very satisfied faces of hundreds of Dornish men and women. By the end of the day, Jaime felt sure all their shoes were going to be burned or sent to the dustbin.

This carpet stank like it had been sent to the Seven Hells with the mission of making it as disgusting as it was possible. Two soldiers vomited on it as they couldn't bear the smell, which made it...something he didn't really want to think about it.

Their ordeal mercifully ended – though he was sure his clothes were going to be removed the minute he could away with it – and they were surrounded by a regiment of orange-armoured women with gold insignia. Jaime recognised the model without effort. Battle-armour Mark 13 'Nymeria', the standard equipment for women officers in Sectors where they were authorised to march to war.

A son began to play in the background and a sixth of the Dornish opened to reveal the leaders of this force. For a second or two, he believed he was in front of snake-sized humans but fortunately it was only incredibly realist snake-shaped helmets and painted scales on the rest of the protections. The armours had shades of orange on them, but the dominant colours were different. The protections were obviously better; he had looked at so many customised armours he could recognise the work reserved to Heir and Heiresses of Noble Houses.

A herald sounded a trumpet and a light voice boomed in the arid Dornish waste.

"All bow before Princess Rhaenys, Lady of Hellgate Hall and Commander of the Sand Wyrm Army!"

Jaime bowed largely, as did the majority of the gold-uniformed troops having followed him. The men sent by the King, alas, did not imitate them and only inclined slightly their heads.

The woman in the middle of the formation removed her helmet and Jaime's breath for a moment had the air expulsed out of his lungs. In a pale yellowish-white battle-armour before him, was a young woman who looked exactly like a twenty name days Elia Martell. The same black hairs, black eyes, thin lips and olive skin were present. But the stance was different. The defunct Princess had had a warrior past but had always preferred gentleness before the violence. In her daughter the threat of violence was strongly implied and the decoration of the scales on the armour emphasized it. Rhaenys had absolutely nothing of House Targaryen in her looks...and as much as he hated to admit it, Jaime could not help but feel a bit sorry.

"Princess Rhaenys," he saluted.

"My valiant white knight," and the genuine smile he received for fifteen seconds made him almost forget this was not Elia he was talking to. She was not tall the Kingsguard remarked as her pale armoured fist touched his chin with infinite care. He was still a good head and a half above her...and since she was in armour, the difference in height was probably greater than that.

The moment of calm did not last, like everything in this galaxy. The rude intervention of the Targaryen Captain brought them back to reality.

"Princess Rhaenys, acting on the orders of His Majesty Rhaegar Targaryen, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Sectors, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faith..."

Seriously, was the man going to recite the three hundred titles of House Targaryen and its Head?

"Your Royal Father commands you to return to King's Landing. Your presence is required at court."

The smile disappeared on the Princess' visage and there was something determined in her eyes when her mouth opened to answer.

"This monster is not my Father and Dorne does not recognise him as our King." There were moments you could tell Lords and Ladies lied; this was not one of them. The tone of Rhaenys Targaryen was disarming of sincerity. "Rhaegar the Oath-Breaker, Emperor of Hypocrites, Madness and Ruin has no right to give me orders."

The next sentence was added almost as an after-thought.

"Besides, the moment I would be back, he would sell me to the Arryn Heir or another non-entity to fulfil one of his eternally-damned prophecies."

Jaime did his best not to wince. He was not the best judge of the King, since he was always on inspections or on whatever long and boring duties the Crown found him, but it sounded plausible to his ears.

"This is treason, then," declared the red-black clad Captain. For the hundredth time, Jaime wondered what good his presence did. The man had obviously received his instructions straight from the Royal mouth.

"You can see it like this," retorted the Princess. "Personally, I think it's more the result of Dorne being humiliated, betrayed and stabbed in the back repeatedly by two Kings. If there's any justice, Aerys is burning in the deepest part of the Seven Hells and my genitor will follow him soon. Your madness corrupted the dream and destroyed alliance, peace and unity...I think it's time to end everything."

"Signal the _Crown of Crocodiles_!" snarled the dragon-sworn officer. "Tell them to-!"

"Nymeria, kill this battlecruiser." The order clacked like a whip and one of the women in an elaborate blue-green snake-armour whispered something in a communication device.

The result was immediate. Less than ten seconds after being spoken, the part of the sky above them was lightened by something looking like extremely powerful fireworks. But there was not much doubt about what had just happened. Ser Roger Wardfire, his battlecruiser and the rest of his crew were dead. And it was confirmed in the woman's own voice seconds later.

"Target destroyed, Princess."

"Thank you, Nymeria," the smile harboured by Rhaenys was different than from the first one this time. She was fixing the Targaryen Captain like a predator which wonders what taste the flesh of its prey tastes like.

"You can be proud, madwoman. You have just declared war to the Seven Sectors!" As little as Jaime wanted to admit it, the man had a point. Ten years of peace had just been killed with this order. While Sunspear was not a great trade nexus, it was not an insignificant backwater either. People talked and the news of this slaughter was going to spread. The Crown Navy was going to be enraged to have lost a battlecruiser and the Iron Throne would have no choice but to declare war. It may not happen tomorrow, the delays thorough the Narrow Void being unavoidable, but it was going to happen.

"Is this the moment I'm supposed to be meek and fearful? Please." The contempt showed by the daughter of Elia was evident. "You speak of Seven Sectors but the majority of your planets have dreamed for endless nights of rebellion and insurrection."

The officer loyal to the King tried to seize his side-arm. It was a grievous mistake. One of the women wearing serpent-decorated armours – this one was clad in black and yellow – slammed her vibro-spear through his throat and the Captain's body fell lifelessly on the sand, giving it a bloody red colour.

"I am a reasonable woman," said the black-haired young woman, giving the freshly-made corpse a good kick before turning her black eyes in their direction. "You have served my father but you are not responsible for his dreadful policies and the madness he spreads. Kneel and swear to serve me loyally, and you will be forgiven."

"You don't dictate who will be forgiven, bitch! ARRRGGGH!" These were the last words of a red-black guard before six spears transformed him into a brochette.

This had been the last straw for the soldiers of the mad sovereign and they tried with a distinct lack of unity to grab their weapons and try to kill as many Dornish opponents as they could. It was stupid and all died without shedding a drop of their opponent's blood. Outnumbered as they were, even the greatest warrior in Terminator battle-armour had no chance to survive. When you added that the Dornish women had had their rifles pointed on their back all this time, hundreds of deadly vibro-spears ready to strike and wore no Terminator battle-armours...the outcome was very predictable. A few spacemen tried to intervene and were slaughtered as they stood. Overall, it took less than a minute for close to a hundred men to meet their end in this Dornish desert.

"Will you follow me, my white knight?" Small white-yellow armoured fingers enclosed his right hand and his eyes plunged in familiar black eyes.

Eighteen years ago, it would have been a hard question. But it was eighteen years ago. Before 'King' Rhaegar had refused to give him any duty worthy of a Kingsguard. Before his cousins of the Rock showed him how much value he had now that he was out of the succession for Casterly Rock and the cruelty they showed to Tyrion. The capital had sunk in internal feuds and petty politicking. His 'inspections' had shown him how many planets were waiting for the slimmest chance to begin a new rebellion. But there was one woman who had not betrayed him, in actions, memory or spirit. She was dead now, but for the love of her he could obey her daughter.

"I will, for the love of your mother." Jaime Lannister replied and kneeled, a movement the rest of the Crownlander men followed. "Hail Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Princess Elia Martell and true Queen of Westeros."

* * *

 **Lord Jacaerys Velaryon, 1.08.300AAC, Longtable System**

"I don't like this plan."

Jacaerys tried to ignore the colossal headache which was killing his brain and prayed to find an answer which wasn't too rude. He should not have drunk that much wine all day in hindsight.

"Which part?" The young Lord of Driftmark asked to the Prince he was serving as chief of staff in everything spatial-related.

"All of it!" exclaimed Aegon. "We must attack the Lannisters the moment our new secret fleet is ready! Who cares if we lose a system or two in the River Sector to these traitorous vermin! We will make examples of them with massive orbital strikes when the Rock will surrender to us!"

Jacaerys racked his brains in search of a diplomatic answer. Unfortunately, just as he had settled on 'if we abandon loyal systems to the rebels, people are not going to be happy' Aegon had already turned his heels and was leaving the room, followed by the Hightower Kingsguard and other Targaryen troopers.

Exhausted, he collapsed in his seat and looked at the three other members of the staff he had the honour to command.

"You heard the Crown Prince, he doesn't like the plan." He paused trying to find something brilliant to say but between the after-effects of alcohol and the late hour, the words evaded him. "We need to create another one. The floor is open for any suggestions."

Silence greeted these words. It was Theon Greyjoy who broke them first.

"He liked the first draft of Operation Jackpot Tiger," the Ironborn who had been granted the rank of Crown Rear-Admiral by courtesy said.

"We haven't yet the warships for Jackpot Tiger," the reply had come from Aelyx Langward, Vice-Admiral and Heir of House Langward.

Jacaerys nodded darkly. As tempting as the idea was, an offensive straight through the Crakehall-Tarbeck Hall-Lannisport-Casterly Rock corridor had slim chances to achieve anything apart from killing millions of spacemen and armsmen. There were 'only' four stellar systems to take but three were extremely fortified and the fourth had been forbidden to civilian shipping since the end of the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion – in practise they had no idea whatsoever about the traps waiting for them in the Tarbeck Hall System.

"We could lose as many as two hundred ships of the line before facing the defences of the Rock," Jacaerys agreed. "And each system conquered can be retaken by flanking attacks if we don't leave enough forces to garrison them. Crakehall can be reinforced by Hawthorne's March, Lannisport by Broom's Redoubt and the Rock itself has four or five stellar systems sufficiently close to ensure it never falls."

Aelyx and Adrian didn't disagree but the expression harboured by Theon was clearly mutinous.

"I say we can take them!" At times it was not difficult to remember the son of Balon Greyjoy was not a Crownlander. This was one of these cases. "The Lannisters have currently in service one super-battleship, sixty-two ships of the line, eight armoured cruisers, one hundred and twenty-eight battlecruisers plus fourteen fleet carriers and seventy-five light carriers."

Theon lighted on the central display to reveal other numbers in neat green columns.

"On the other hand, the Reach alone has three super-battleships, one hundred and ninety-six ships of the line, fifteen armoured cruisers, four hundred and twenty battlecruisers, twenty-seven fleet carriers and three hundred and forty-five light carriers available. There are also powerful space squadrons in the Iron Sector ready to fall on the detached units of the Western forces. Aegon has the Crown Navy, half of the River Navy and about a third of the Storm and Vale Navy supporting him. Why can't we smash these Lion bastards and be done with it?"

The hatred of the legitimate Lord of Pyke was very real. The Crown may have commanded the forces crushing the Greyjoy Rebellion, but it had been the Beast of Tywin Lannister who had massacred Theon's father. And it was the Westerners who by their atrocities had made quite sure Theon could not go back to the Iron Sector despite his time as war being officially over. The situation was so difficult on the ground at Pyke that the legitimate Lord returning was sure to provoke an explosion and worsen considerably the task of the garrison forces.

"Because we can't afford to send all these ships right now straight into the Western Sector," explained quietly Vice-Admiral Adrian Buckwell, the brown-haired and twenty-two years old Heir of the Antlers. "Mace Tyrell will not thin out his defences in the Marches as long as there's a risk that Dorne can plant us a poisoned dagger in the back."

"Still it isn't like the Dornish have thousands of warships," remarked Aelyx. "Nightsong is on our side and heavily fortified so they can't pass this way. Blackhaven is less defensible but the Black Stag and his allies will be forced to fight for House Dondarrion if the Martells are stupid enough to invade."

Jacaerys frowned, though it was more about the headache killing him than because he dis.

"Do you have the latest estimates on the number of ships of the line available to every Sector by the way?"

"Yes, but it took far longer than we thought," told Theon. "Varys and his Crown Intelligence Agency have tried to give the most pessimistic figures without a single hard proof to show us. These spies and their little games..."

Everyone around the table nodded to agree with this judgement. No one would deny the Spider was useful, but sometimes his assertions and the information he gave were alarmist to the highest degree when there was nothing wrong at stake.

"This is what we and the different navies will have by the end of next month. For simplicity's sake, we didn't count the ships of the line sent to the Iron Sector for this study."

A holographic map of Westeros materialised for the background, quickly followed by the numbers the analysts had compiled on the ship of the lines available to each Lord Paramount.

Crown Sector: 48

Reach Sector: 196

Western Sector: 62

River Sector: 50

Storm Sector: 35

Vale Sector: 47

Northern Sector: 18

Dorne Princedom: 15

"Given the similar rapport of force in battlecruisers and carriers," concluded the Rear-Admiral, "I don't think the Lannisters can afford to defend against us and raid the River Sector with significant forces."

It was logical...but then Jacaerys knew that Tywin and his legion of cousins could look at a map and arrive to the same conclusion. And a lion had claws, no matter what the reports said.

"How many capital ships did the Lord of Highgarden want to leave at home anyway?"

"Around twenty-four ships of the line and twice that many battlecruiser for the Dornish Marches," replied Aelyx with a deeply unhappy expression. "The battle-squadrons will be divided between Grassy Vale, Cockshaw Plains, Ashford and Starpike, assuming nothing changes."

It seemed a very cautious move just to protect yourself from the Dornish...the bannersmen of the Martell had not that much firepower available to them. Unless the father of Aegon's betrothed had new ambitions concerning the Storm Sector after Connington routinely failed to make his main bannersmen obey his decrees. Yes, this was another alternative.

"Twenty-four still leaves us with one hundred and seventy-two of the biggest warships built in Westerosi shipyards, Aelyx," reflected Adrian.

"And Lord Mace wants to keep a strong reserve under his thumb in the core systems of the Reach," added the Heir of House Langward.

"How many?" This meeting was getting worse and worse and he could not wait to go to his bed.

"Two squadrons for Highgarden and two for Oldtown is the minimum he's willing to concede."

"He's not serious!" the outburst had come from Theon. "The Lord Paramount of the Reach is building the biggest fleet in all Westeros history and he intends to sit on it doing nothing?"

"I don't think he sees it like that..." laughed his friend from the Antlers System.

"But the result will be the same," Jacaerys sighed as Theon was highlighting a map of the planets of the Reach Sector. "I can see the strategic necessity to keep a strong reserve at Highgarden, since the orbital defences are not as impressive as other systems like Oldtown. It's the Reach capital after all, and where they are they can be easily rushed to the Western Sector if we need them."

"Still, it is twenty-eight ships of the line we're speaking about," one battle-squadron in the Reach was seven ships of the line-strong, courtesy of millennia-old traditions and customs. One look at Theon was sufficient to tell he was not pleased at all. "If we remove them of our order of battle, the two main fleets will be operating with at best seventy-two ships of the line until the wave of new construction comes into service."

"The Lannisters have far less than that and we're going to bring the Crown Fleet in the River Sector the moment we've dealt with those accepting Western funds."

"I don't think it's going to be that easy, but I am not the Admiral," the blue eyes of Adrian were fixed on his large pile of data-slates in front of him. "But going back to the first source of annoyance, I don't think we can afford to ignore the River Sector like the Prince wishes us to."

The holographic image vanished, replacing the map of the Reach Sector by the River one. One click and a third of the Sector began glowing in malevolent lights.

"Do you want be to list all the Noble Houses hostile to us in this region?" asked rhetorically the Heir of House Buckwell. "Because it's a long one."

"Many are not allied with each other and hate each other as much as they hate us." Theon had a point on this, though it was maybe a bit too optimistic. On the one hand, no one could deny the River Lords were indeed raised with tens of thousands ancient feuds and waged them against their close neighbours with a truly frightening passion. On the other hand, a rather large coalition had lasted long enough to fight for the Rebels during the Usurper's Rebellion.

"The Twins, Charlton, Vypren, Seagard, Acorn Hall, Stone Hedge, Raventree Hall and Maidenpool...must I continue?" Enough negative nods were expressed to ensure this was not going to be necessary.

"Fine, you've made your point." Theon smirked. "But you will have to explain to Aegon why you want to divert one of his two fleets to burn the Brackens and the Blackwoods." The young man who was considered at court by many as a better choice than this Florent-bootlicker of Rodrik Harlaw was showing his irritating behaviour once again. And the headache in Jacaerys' skull was not getting more pleasant.

"I will explain to him. He will understand." Or his cousin would send him once again draft new plans but hopefully by that point he would feel better. "After all, we have less than one year and a half before the new capital build-up is complete. With over five hundred ships of the line we will be able to crush Tywin Lannister and his greedy spawn in a couple of months. We just need to avoid war until then."

"Easier said than done," grumbled Aelyx. "I'm sure this little shit of Joffrey is doing all he can to antagonise the Republic of Braavos against us..."

* * *

 **Sparrow Secret Base, 01.08.300AAC, Appleton Harvest System**

The hall was ruined and lacked everything an aristocrat would have considered the minimum comfort to spend a night here: elaborate decoration, servants, water and electricity. Over eighty years ago, this had been the part of a large summer residence owned by an eccentric Knightly House but the family had made the fatal mistake of backing Daemon Blackfyre and had been annihilated shortly after the bloody conclusion of the First Rebellion.

Situated dozens of kilometres away from the important population centres, it was an excellent site to organise illegal meetings. The location had been looted and subjected to the attention of several gangs; there was nothing valuable or remarkable left here and the law enforcement patrols routinely ignored the calls coming from the rare villages in the nearby valleys.

Maybe if they had known this was one of the top-secret meetings where the senior leadership of the Seven Sparrows gathered for the first and last time this year, the Appleton forces would have been slightly more dutiful to investigate smuggling activities in this quadrant of the planet.

But they didn't. Four men and three women were standing in an informal circle, planning for their next move and the chances were infinitesimal the agents of Highgarden were going to catch them any time soon. After all, for this unlikely scenario to happen, the Lords and Ladies of the Reach had to admit the very terrorist organisation which had struck King's Landing was hiding on the planets they ruled.

"Phase One is complete," declared the High Sparrow. Old and crooked with long grey hair, he was by a large margin the oldest of the participants. "As predicted, the attack has brought considerable attention on the heretical and corrupt practises of the capital."

"I can't say I enjoyed the collateral damage caused by our bombs," declared the Maiden Sparrow. She was a young woman of noble appearance, and her looks were pretty much the antithesis of the High Sparrow.

"We had not the choice," the voice of the Sparrow Warrior who had organised the final details of the operation was grim. "The monster sitting on the Iron Throne has tainted the higher ranks of our Faith with his heretical poison. The septons promised to the King of Westeros over two centuries ago we would not fight anymore with weapons on the battlefield, but the Targaryens have not respected their word. A terrible shock was necessary to remind our brethren drinking the dragon's poison has its consequences."

"I agree," said the Crone Sparrow. "Every demonstration not including violence would have been swept under the carpet by the Master of Information. The Targaryens only listen when someone hit them hard and place a dagger to their throat."

The Stanger made the appropriate sign with his fingers but didn't speak. Under his black cloak, the man never opened his mouth.

"Is it time to begin Phase Two?" asked politely the Smith-Sparrow. Dressed in a curious garb, the man looked very much the part of a mad scientist. "The ships are ready and our brothers all have received their preliminary instructions."

"In this case...I suppose we must give the orders." There was authentic regret in the voice of the Mother Sparrow. "The window of opportunity will soon close as these pig-headed Lords begin to fight for scraps of power."

"I suppose there's no need to vote?" The High Sparrow received six nods of assent. "In this case, this is decided. Phase Two begins...let's pray for the courageous souls about to give their life for the Seven."

"For the Seven and the salvation of the Seven Sectors!"

* * *

 **Northgate System, 02.08.300AAC**

The Northgate System was something best avoided mentioning when there were loyalists veterans of the Usurper's War in the vicinity. In theory, it was a system firmly integrated in the River Sector. In theory, the Northerners had promised to give it back in 286AAC, a concession they had made when the Peace of Maidenpool was signed.

But since the King of Westeros Rhaegar the First had not respected his obligations, Winterfell had in return 'forgot' to return the stellar system, to accept the new Noble House appointed by the Iron Throne and to not station any military unit around the planets.

After much grumbling, the Small Council and the rest of Westeros had been forced to accept this 'intolerable' situation. All the while the broadcasts of the Master of Information insulted the Northerners and lamented endlessly about the issue of good and proper Riverlanders living under the terrifying rule of the barbarians.

Needless to say, Petyr Baelish and his predecessor had taken some liberties with the truth. Northgate's inhabitants were not oppressed. Hardy and stubborn as it was proper for a planet where six out of eight seasons were dangerous for an average human, the men, women and children had rejoiced a lot after the Usurper's Rebellion. House Shieldgate was extinct – the last member had perished at the hands of Lord Eddard Stark himself – and the taxes had significantly decreased after a Governor-General was appointed to replace the existing ruling structure.

For a decade, the citizens of Northgate were not on the receiving end of the tariffs and commercial warfare imposed by rapacious trade companies operating from Willow Wood or the Twins. The consequence had been a neat improvement in their quality of life. There were still a small number of loyalists protesting, of course. But overall the population was very satisfied of their 'Dreaded Stark Overlords', like Galactic Targaryen News enjoyed demonising them.

Propaganda aside, Northgate was not really important either to the North or the River Sector. The number of humans living in this stellar system was thirty-five million, the industry was limited and the military contribution it could offer to its owner was low.

It was not really defensible. The single asteroid belt was far away from any jump point and the single gas giant was generating no anomalies to destabilise modern sensors.

Yet this unimportant system was the first target the Targaryens would have to take if one day they wanted to crush the Northern Sector militarily and rush to Moat Cailin. As such, there was always a small Northern flotilla patrolling it. The goal of this space force was just an alarm warning, obviously. No one from Last Heart to White Harbor had any hope a few scout cruisers could fight a Crown-River fleet and live. That was why Twelfth Fleet was positioned where it was.

No, the role of this space picket was to give the alert and then shadow the big formation of their enemies which would come for their homes, beginning a new bloody civil war. It had been a boring duty for the better part of sixteen years. This morning was the exception to the rule.

"We have two Red Moon-class scout cruisers of the Willow Wood Fast Reaction Force and one Void Shark-class heavy cruiser from the King's Landing Home Fleet," said the Lieutenant in charge of the tactical section aboard the light cruiser _City of Snow_. "They are Crown warships and aren't hiding it. Do we listen to their supplications or are we launching the missiles first?"

It was a belligerent declaration for a Lieutenant to make...unless one knew the young man in question had lost his two elder brothers in the war against the Mad Dragons.

"Let's listen to them first," the Captain replied. "I have no love for the dragon minions, but I imagine the Admiralty will want a solid reason to know why my ship has reopened the hostilities."

A few chuckles were heard on the light cruiser's bridge.

"I imagine that even Targaryens aren't going to launch a sneak attack with three ships," the Northern ship commander hailing from White Harbor mused. "And between us and the rest of the flotilla, we can largely take them handily if they want a fight. Open communications with them."

The command was acknowledged and a few minutes were spent waiting for the answer. The City of Snow was far from the jump point, and with these distances communications were rather long to establish...

The wait was interrupted in a rather unexpected manner when the holographic image of a silver-haired young woman appeared on the flag bridge. She was a Targaryen, and while the North was late in receiving the holo-newspapers from the rest of Westeros, the Northgate flotilla received frequent updates on the potential players and the Royal Family. As a result, the Captain had a very good idea who their interlocutor was...as well as the fact there had never been any warning the Rapist had ever intended to accept a custody exchange.

"I'm afraid this situation has just jumped well over our pay grade..."

* * *

 **Author's note** : And here the great and long chapter of the Dying Peace Arc ends. The war is closing fast now, and nobody in the major players really wants to avoid it. The next chapter will present Visenya's arrival to the North, several war plans, more conspiracies and terrorist attacks as well as new armament systems...

If you want more to read, the maps and the warships I use as models or the tropes, here are the interesting links.

TV Tropes Page: / pmwiki/ / Fanfic/ LetTheGalaxyBurn

Alternate History page (useful for conversations, maps and ships models but you need an account, you have to remove the spaces): www. alternate history forum/ threads/ let-the-galaxy-burn- asoiaf-space-opera-au.396049 /

If you want to support my writing on P a treon, the link is: www. p a treon Antony444

I hope everyone continues to enjoy reading this story!


	14. Two Minutes to Midnight

**The Dying Peace Arc**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Two Minutes to Midnight**

 _It is too late to save the realm._

 _But you know this, don't you?_

 _The pillars of the crumbling palace you call a kingdom are a spider and the might of your millions-strong armies._

 _You have built great fortresses to protect your legacy. Kilometres-long battleships travel through the stars, obeying the orders of men they never saw in their lives. Behemoths and super-heavy tanks are only waiting a command to unleash untold amount of destruction. Tens of thousands infantrymen are recruited day after day, grabbed from their green villages to prepare for the conflicts to come._

 _Do you really think it was going to be enough?_

 _The words of the dragon can't be trusted. Ruin and betrayal have awaited those who were naive enough to trust them._

 _Bathing worlds in fire and blood granted you a reprieve, I will grant you this. But you can't forge a new peace with only the threat of violence. Your glorious ancestor was wise enough to understand and he had a weapon you lacked._

 _Dragons._

 _Ultimately, it is always the dragons, isn't it? The great predators of the stars allowed you to reign and died because the last dragonlords had grown too arrogant and complacent._

 _Three hundred years of reign is no small feat for a dynasty...but there will be no four hundred, and you know this._

 _In their old bastions, the lords of the storm are swearing their loyalty to the new heir of the Warmaster._

 _In the sky fortresses of the east, an old falcon prepares for his last fight._

 _In the shadows, the priests you scorned prepares their vengeance in the name of the Heavens._

 _In the void, a broken pirate king returns to claim a throne he never wanted in a name of the dead._

 _In the gold mines, the lions are sharpening their claws._

 _In the shining cities of other realms, a black dragon is reborn._

 _In the deserts of your own making, the snakes have long prepared their poisons and their spears._

 _In the cold wastes, the direwolves are moving at last, slow but implacable._

 _And beyond the veil of reality, my old enemies have mustered their legions. As I send you these dreams, they are already encircling the redoubts of the Children._

 _This time there will be no escape._

 _This war will be fought for life and death is no longer final._

 _The Age of Peace is over._

 _The Long Night is coming._

* * *

 _For centuries, the Westerosi military forces not sworn to House Martell have accused the Dornish soldiers of conduct and operations breaking all conventions on warfare. In the last decades, the Iron Throne and the systems firmly allied with it have not spared their efforts to present the subjects of the Princedom as backstabbing murderers who can't remember what chivalry and honour are._

 _The origin of this view is difficult to remember. Reachers and Stormlanders fought many wars against the Dornish long before the Targaryens built an outpost in the Dragonstone System. There were massacres and atrocities committed on both sides. Famous Generals of Highgarden dropped dead after drinking a cup of wine while Dornish children were mutilated and sent back to their families piece by piece._

 _It is known that in the First Dornish War fought by Aegon the Conqueror, the Martells and their bannersmen had no choice but to embrace unconventional tactics. The enemy threatening their systems had invaded them with dragons and the support of several realms which had been years ago bitter enemies. Outnumbered and outgunned, there was no question the Dornish commanders told their soldiers anything was acceptable to liberate their home planets and win the war. Generals, Admirals and officers of all branches were murdered in gruesome fashions. Behemoth and capital warships were sabotaged. The cease-fire accepted by Aegon I and the subsequent withdrawal of all Westerosi forces from Dorne certainly did nothing to correct the impression of the Dornish they had been in the wrong to use these desperate measures._

 _One hundred and fifty years or so later, it was the turn of Daeron I to try his chance where the rider of Balerion had tried and failed. This time the violations of the war conventions were even more blatant and terribly one-sided. The troops of the Young Dragon had no dragon to help them and generally accepted the offers of surrender in good faith...only to receive assassinations, sabotages, poison darts and other lethal weapons in return. The Lord of Highgarden, the Heir of Winterfell, eleven Western lords in a single banquet and ultimately the King himself were some of the prominent names who were slain by methods which could not be called anything but dishonest and unfaithful. In the end, the Dornish once more emerged unbroken from this ordeal: the crowning of Baelor I stopped the bloody conflict in its tracks._

 _Nowadays, the tendency appears to have been inversed: the administration of King's Landing is hardly known for the respect of the accords it is signing while the Dornish have adopted an isolationist policy following the death of Princess Elia Martell._

 _This does not mean Lord Mace Tyrell was right when he publically affirmed in front of his peers after conducting the 297AAC war games that a new conflict against Dorne would see his forces emerge victorious. The Lord of Highgarden was extremely prompt to recognise the underhanded and treacherous tactics of House Martell, but assured the spectators his fleets and his armies were ready to parry sneak attacks and sabotages alike._

 _The Lord of Highgarden has seemingly forgotten the Dornish strategic position is weak compared to his own Sector. The Reach has sixty-two systems to the Dornish twenty-nine, and the manpower imbalance is worse for there are more than one hundred and seven billions Reachers for twenty-two billions subjects of Sunspear. A lot of the main systems like Starfall, Yronwood or Salt Shore are not exactly poor, but they can't boast the sheer wealth a Lord like Leighton Hightower of Oldtown takes for granted._

 _It is not a guess that should any war come, House Martell and its bannersmen will resort to extremely unconventional strategies: it is a fact. By 299AAC, the Reach Navy alone will have in service ten times the number of ships of the line the Princedom musters. On the ground, the army divisions of Houses Rowan Fossoway, Beesbury and the rest of the Tyrell bannersmen have a fourteen-to-one advantage. In starfighters, the Dornish great specialty, the Reach has still a two-to-one superiority and thousands of new engines are in production._

 _Given the troubled political situation, the ramifications are of primary importance for the stability of the Marches..._

Extract from the Wrath of the Sun, by Lysene author Vitaeys Jiterro, 298AAC.

* * *

 **Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, 03.08.300AAC, Sunspear System**

Rhaenys collapsed with a loud exclamation of relief on her orange couch. The day had been long and the last two hours she had spent dealing with administrative duties – stacks of data-slates to be exact – and logistic issues. It was not the kind of activities she enjoyed.

A word and the music devices pre-arranged behind the walls began to play one of her favourite songs. She removed her heels and threw them away without particularly bothering where they landed on the soft red rug. She seized one of the bottles of red from the Godsgrace she had kept nearby and filled half of a glass. The savour of the wine brought her some appeasement and relaxation.

Unfortunately, the moment her attention returned to the bottle, she noticed how little red liquid remained. The Lady of Hellgate Hall frowned. Either she was drinking in her sleep or someone was drinking her best bottles while she had her back turned. A second of reflexion and she concluded the latter was far more likely than the former. It was not the first time it happened, sadly.

"It's not because I always receive the best wines as presents you're forced to drink them, you know," some noble might have wondered why she was suddenly speaking to an empty room but Rhaenys knew better. A shiver behind the couch, and suddenly her cousin was jumping next to her.

"But your presents are always so good," Arianne purred, putting a long accentuation on the last two words and pushing her chest forwards, an action which just by coincidence put further emphasis on her large breasts. It must be said the cleavage of her light yellow dress today was not hiding a lot. "How can I resist?"

The daughter of Elia Martell shook her head in feigned sadness.

"If the Lords and Ladies of Westeros were aware of your ambitions to raid their wine cellars, their fear would know no bounds."

And it wasn't that much of an exaggeration.

"Ah, but they don't know the horrible truth yet." The busty Princess replied with a predatory smile. "And when they will, it will be too late! I will be in their wineries, grabbing with my loyal legions of wine-stealers hundreds of thousands barrels and selling them on the black market of the Free Planets while seizing for myself an ocean of alcohol! Never will I be thirsty again! Bwahaha!"

Rhaenys looked weirdly at the wine. It was powerful, but it couldn't possibly have gotten the girl who was her sister in all but name drunk, could it?

"You have curious ambitions, Ari."

"And you don't have enough Rhae." Arianne tried to stretch out her legs a bit more and was rewarded by a gentle slap on her feet. The Heiress of Prince Doran did a big show of yelping. "The moment your paramour broke up with you and returned at Starfall, you buried yourself in work and forgot to have fun."

"Something nobody will accuse you of," the Fowler twins had returned at Skyreach for the war, but her cousin had already found replacements to partake in vigorous activities after nightfall.

"Let's not speak about me. Let me talk about you, Rhae." The smile from Arianne was really frightening when you were the principal target. "We're on the eve of the biggest war the Princedom has ever fought and you wander around in circles like a caged lioness. You need to think about other things before we leave in four days. Go fuck your White Knight tonight. I know you're making doe eyes at him and yesterday you were ready to dance horizontally the moment Nymeria had left your side."

"You make it sound so romantic."

She didn't deny it, though. It was after all true she had always thought fondly about Ser Jaime Lannister, the protector of her childhood...and the moment he had arrived at King's Landing and they had met, Rhaenys had begun to entertain more than that.

"Romanticism is boring and outdated," her cousin grinned. "Claim him before your waiting convinces the rest of our court this fine blonde-haired warrior is fair game. Tyene or Morgana will soon begin their seduction efforts if you don't."

Rhaenys was no prude, but Arianne comments made her cheeks far warmer than they should be. The 'advice' was also conjuring very vivid images in her head and they were particularly pleasant to imagine.

"I will think about it."

This answer didn't seem to satisfy her cousin who stood up and place walked behind her, placed her mouth next to her right ear and gave a very hot suggestion which made the Princess profusely blush. She would not repeat these words in public...heart of Dorne or not, there were expressions you didn't voice out loud in public.

"You will do it," and on this Arianne came back to her former semi-horizontal position on the couch.

They emptied one more glass of wine and then it was time for the real problems. They might not look like it, she in her white robe and Arianne in her yellow clothes, but they were both Commander of Five Hundred Thousand – second only to their Uncle Oberyn since Prince Doran was enjoying his last years in the peaceful atmosphere of the Great Water Gardens – and a lot of the initial strategies about to be used in the first stages had come from them.

"The current regime is weakened. On the surface, nothing has changed much at the capital but the attacks of the Sparrows have created a lot of uncertainty. And I have to wonder how loyal the Kingsguards are to their masters. No offence Rhae, but you really didn't have a lot to say to make the ones sent to us change sides."

It was true. At first, she had feared it was far too good to be true...that said the agents of the Princedom had uncountable ways to snatch the motivations and other critical information from their sources. Jaime's defection to her cause, while quick, had been helped by the actions of her genitor. For reasons which escaped her and in all likelihood most of the explored galaxy, the madman had used one of the greatest protectors he had available to be an errand messenger. In other words, he was sent from planet to planet and proclaimed whatever the authorities of King's Landing wanted him to say.

It was an utter waste of experience and talent. But what could you expect from the fool?

"The Kingsguard is ready to break apart like many institutions the moment we pull the trigger. Barristan Selmy, Oswell Whent and of course Arthur Dayne are going to remain loyal to the King, but between our operatives and the assassins the other claimants will send, I don't think they will see the end of this year. Garth Hightower is with the Crown Prince and his House benefits too much from the Reach-Crown alliance, he will be loyal as long as the Tyrells are convinced my brother is their way to win the Game of Thrones."

"Preston Greenfield is loyal to Joffrey."

"And I can see Arys Oakheart swearing his sword to Prince Viserys."

In appearance, it wasn't so bad for the Iron Throne to have four Kingsguards out of seven. It was exact from a certain point of view. But historically, the breaking of the Kingsguard forced the sheep of the Crown Sector to remember the greatest conflict which had broken the White Order: the Dance of the Dragons. There were whispers the same had been true under Maegor's reign though the files on this period were always difficult to access. But it was a pure coincidence.

Still, Kingsguards had a battlecruiser as their personal flagship, smaller units for escort and a small army of guards to protect their King. They also guarded the King's secrets, were included in the most secret plans to defend the capital world and the core systems of the Targaryen dynasty. A single white sword could do considerable damage if he deserted. Two or three would be a nasty blow added to the others they were going to inflict to the lackeys of her genitor.

"I assume all the captains of Operation Midnight have sent us confirmation they had reached the specified spatial muster points?"

"They have," confirmed Arianne. "Two of the Q-ships needed some repairs; their navigation in Deep Space wasn't a calm journey."

"As long as their capabilities are not impeded and they can repair, I see no point to reprimand them." Rhaenys left her glass next to the wine bottle before playing with her golden earrings. "This is the reason we gave them a large timetable. Midnight and our official declaration of war are still one month away."

"True. But there are still a few high commanders in Houses Yronwood and Blackmont who are not exactly happy with the basic generalities we gave them."

"It can't be helped." She would have dearly liked to tell them in person the intricacies of the first operations but it was impossible if the Dornish fleets and armies wanted the first offensives to be a total surprise. "The spies of Highgarden are stupid, but there are a lot of them and many of our bannersmen planets are leaking information fastest than should be possible. Should we give them the plans today, in one month the Tyrells and the Hightowers will have completely modified their strategic dispositions and Midnight will fail because our spacemen face entire squadrons of ships of the line when they should be none. "The new war council at Skyreach will explain about seven out of ten of our intentions and contingency plans."

Overall, she didn't expect a lot of trouble. The Dornish Lords and Ladies were completely fed up with the family she had severed ties with and the Masters of the Reach. The best part was that no coercion, blackmail or bribery had been necessary. Rhaegar Targaryen and Mace Tyrell were very, very good to attract the ire of their neighbours. It was a bit funny, in a macabre sort of way. If they had been Knights or lower in the aristocracy hierarchy, they would have been sent to an asylum. Or their families would have isolated them in large mansions away from towns and holo-news the time for them to fade into oblivion.

"Obara wanted us to add Oldtown to Midnight's list."

"Again?" Rhaenys rolled her eyes in amusement. "I suppose you gave her a new explanation?"

"Not this time," replied Doran's daughter. "I was tired and in no mood to waste my saliva for her."

Rhaenys grimaced internally. Obara Sand, eldest of the Sand Snakes, was not really in favour anymore on Sun's Radiance. She was still one of her protectors armed with one of the Nymeria-3 battle-armours, but her influence in the strategic councils was nearly null. Obara saw a wall and immediately wanted to rush towards and crush it down. This was not a good thing when Dorne had fewer warships and bodies than their enemies.

Obara was simple, in her own way. Infantrywoman of profession, she had the title of Commander of Two Thousand and would lead a mix of heavy and light infantry in the war to come. And since their uncle had sired her with an Oldtown whore and her life in the unsavoury quarters of the metropolis had not been pleasant, she wanted to burn the Hightower planet.

"I agree on principle the removal of Oldtown and the armies it can field from the frontlines can only be a good thing but there are two major points against this strike. One, there are too many shipyards and industry to hit for a Midnight task force. We could hurt them and wipe out a tenth or a twelfth of their construction, but unless we go after the planet, the attack will fail."

"And we can't afford a defeat in the first stages," murmured Arianne, abandoning her good humour for a deadly serious face. "Obara knows the second point too. If we strike every shipyard of the Reach Fleet, they are going to return the favour and send raiders with orders to cause the maximum of carnage."

And it would be bad. The Dornish fleet could not be everywhere and the powered weapons of a battlecruiser over an inhabited world could create cataclysms. House Martell knew it better than everyone else. Many Dornish planets had been transformed into desert wastelands by Balerion and its lesser siblings.

It was why until the War of the Usurper Dorne had been the only entity to limit the numbers of children's births. There were simply not enough resources available to allow population growth. The ability to shape their lands into a far more inviting environment existed, but it was a long and expensive process. With a 285AAC-type budget, it was going to take centuries for the Princedom of Dorne to recover a shadow of the splendour it had lost in the terrible conflict against the Conqueror.

But a new era was upon them. For the first time, Dorne was going to destroy this balance forcing every woman to abuse and abuse of the existing contraception methods. For the last two decades, the restrictions, societal and economic, had been lifted. The wrongs of Aerys and her genitor's reign were going to be paid back in full.

"I would still prefer a straight advance on Highgarden, however," Arianne declared, emptying a new glass of wine. Rhaenys gently tapped the hand of her cousin, telling with just a nod it wasn't the moment to finish her reserves.

"It is not impossible we will be able to launch a variant of Mamba. But I don't think the Admirals commanding the enemy battle-squadrons are that stupid. It would require the sort of brainwashing the Lysene give to their genetic pleasure slaves for them to leave their most important system vulnerable. Midnight and Sweet Nightmare will hurt them and cause them to doubt their strengths, of this I have no doubt, but their current fleet is so large we can't risk open battle."

"The Sands Snakes are going to love this."

Rhaenys grinned innocently. The Sand Snakes was the name every Dornish man, woman and child was giving to the daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper. By a mystery which was akin to magic, her uncle had been unable to sire a boy. As a result, there were thirty-three young women and girls as she spoke who could claim this name. Of course, many were still babies or just in age to play in the pools of the Water Gardens. Assuming nothing changed, seven of them were going to be involved in the fighting.

"They will not and you know it," the two cousins exchanged amused glances. "I trust there was no strategic-changing event while I was dealing with the logistics?"

"No, the Lords Paramount and their Admirals are continuing to increase their forces and purchase thousands of weapons instead of feeding their people."

On this last sentence Arianne left her quarters...but not before not-so-subtly seizing the wine bottle they had just been drinking from. Rhaenys sighed loudly. Her cousin was incorrigible.

Using the mini-tactical display she used for her war-simulations, she entered manually the last deployments while eating two honey biscuits. The music providing the ambiance also was changed to provide a more martial tone. Playing the four most probable scenarios in advance speed cost her half an hour for no real gain. The odds had not changed since her last session.

Operation Midnight had a ninety-three percent chance of success.

Operation Sweet Nightmare victory conditions were accomplished in ninety percent of the holographic fights.

Her chances to be Queen of Westeros in five years when the dust would have settled were of six percent.

"But since I am not that desperate to have this ugly pile of melted weapons at all costs..."

The chances of the young man who had been her dear baby brother were far greater...in theory. In practise, several Dornish commanders had tried directing the fleets like Aegon did in the stolen records from the King's Landing Royal Academy and the consoles of their command stations. The 'battles' which had been observed had provided a lot of good laughs. 'King Rhaegar' had not only turned him against Dorne and probably used surgery and genetic modifications to change his looks. He had also made his Heir a brainwashed moron.

Rhaenys tried hard to concentrate after abandoning that but like Arianne had so aptly said, she felt like she was in a cage...

"Oh by the Great Wyrm..." Suddenly she had enough. Enough of these endless meetings, enough of the headaches caused by thousands of logistical problems, enough of the political promises she had been required to offer at an age most of the Noble houses progeny were losing fortunes in brand-new casinos and buying air-cars with astronomical prices.

For a few hours she was going to do what her body and her heart pressed her for several days. In one instant, all her clothes were flying at the four corners of her personal quarters. In replacement, she only put over her shoulders a transparent nightdress after releasing her long black hair from the black headband. One last look in the mirror and she activated the combination to open one of the three secret passages she had access to from her wing.

One minute later, and she was in her White Knight's bedroom. Fortunately, he was not yet asleep despite the relatively late hour. She loved how the shock of her arrival disappeared fast, and desire took its place as he contemplated her breasts and the rest of her body. This nightdress was not hiding anything.

"Princess, you..."

The space separating them ceased to be the moment after and she kissed him deeply, voraciously. For a second or two he didn't answer. After that their tongues fought and Rhaenys knew she had her lover. The kiss was like a bite, deep and life-ending.

"Princess, this is not-"

The exclamation when they broke the kiss was silenced by a finger on his lips. The nightdress fell on her toes, leaving no choice but to gaze at her naked body. She placed one of his hands on her left breast and the other on her ass.

"I am your Queen. And I want you to please me."

There were no further arguments and for the rest of the night, her White Knight did exactly that.

* * *

" _The King's decision to send his Heir to the Reach was understandable. The idea of sending Prince Joffrey to Braavos by himself was sure to cause huge problems. Sending one of his daughters to the North was beyond idiotic. A Kingsguard who landed on a Dornish planet was either going to provoke a war or a catastrophe. But there was no one who had the nerves to contradict the Lord of the Seven Sectors in public and thus the die was cast.._." attributed to Lord Petyr Baelish, 300AAC.

 **Princess Visenya Targaryen, 06.08.300AAC, Moat Cailin System**

In her mind, this mission was already a great success. Despite the best efforts of the King, she had not started a war between the Northern Sector and the rest of Westeros.

The key word was 'yet', of course.

But presently, no one was shooting at anyone, which was the best outcome in a list including very dreadful possibilities. She had spent several bad nights thinking how the status quo could fall apart. Her fears had not been diminished in the least when she had learned the senior fleet officers of the Willow Wood Fast Reaction Force had received 'Royal suggestions' she was to be escorted northwards by a full squadron of River battlecruisers.

Another great idea like this one and House Darry was going to lead the Rebellion in the next war.

Happily, House Ryger and their allies of the Trident had been convinced by her rhetoric to not pour hydrogen on top of the volcano and the 'suggestions' had been ignored. The fact it preserved seven battlecruisers which had a good chance of being lost if they went into the Northern-held systems may have played a role too. As a consequence, two scout cruisers had been detached to guard the heavy cruiser _Night Spear_. Since the two light units were part of the Crown-crewed warships made available to the loyalists of the River Sector, House Ryger would not lose anything if they were transformed into clouds of dust and debris. Moreover, the soldiers defending Northgate could not mistake a weak formation like this for an invasion force.

To be fair, if she wasn't aboard of those ships, she would argue the Crown fleet would lose nothing important if they were blown up. Visenya had been forbidden – and by her genitor no less – to attend any military academy or join the regular forces or the Goldcloaks or whatever job which had some qualification demanding you to shoot someone. Not wanting to obey these 'suggestions', she had used whatever influence her name brought her to become an unofficial test pilot for one of the big evaluation boards overseeing the new developments of the new Crown starfighters.

On the bad side, she had no rank and was reduced to the status of passenger wherever she travelled, while her incompetent half-brothers strutted around with Admiral ranks.

On the good side, she had not suffered the mental crippling of those passing the doors of the Fleet Academy. She had also a good idea of the firepower each class built in the Crown Sector had been granted and plenty of classified information she would not have had access otherwise.

This was why she had been less than enthusiastic for her little adventure.

The _Night Spear_ was in theory a good heavy cruiser. The lead ship had been commissioned in 287AAC and had been intended for close-guard convoy duty or important raids in enemy territory. In total, it boasted twenty heavy plasma guns, twenty battlecruiser-grade laser batteries and six missile tubes.

There was a little default, however. The main weapons of the cruiser used too much energy and the fusion reactors had problems delivering the minimum outputs to every weapon in time. In other words, the designers, engineers and officers had screwed up.

Again.

A Void Shark class warship could not use all his plasma and laser weapons at the same time. At any given time, thirty percent of the existing armament had to remain silent unless the captain wanted random problems to appear thorough the hull. The Crown Navy had discovered this inconvenient detail the hard way when the _Void Shark_ had seen its power reduced to zero for four long seconds in the middle of a war exercise. The casualties aside –and they had been heavy – the consequences for the class had been disastrous and quite a few highborn councillors had been retired with extreme urgency.

Obviously, the smart decision by that point should have been to interrupt at least temporarily the construction of the Void Shark class but between the incident of 288AAC and the official abandon, two years had been wasted and they had not had the courage to reveal their mistakes in public committee. The Void Shark class construction had been officially stopped due to the return of experience from the Greyjoy Rebellion – where none of the heavy cruisers had been involved in the heavy fighting.

Thus the Crown Navy had built fifteen heavy cruisers who could not fight properly should they find themselves under fire. It was stupid, but it was the truth. Two squadrons and one ship were absorbing considerable sums of money and a lot of maintenance for no practical result save some people wanting to preserve their families' reputation.

Meagre consolation, the designers had built the King Aenys-class in 297AAC which fulfilled the same jobs but apparently had none of its defaults. Last year, three brothers of the _Night Spear_ had as a result been decommissioned to make place for the new warships. It was likely the twelve remaining –including the _Night Spear_ – would share this fate by the end of 301AAC.

The _Red Sun_ and the _Red Comet_ were not better although for very different reasons. These two scout cruisers belonged to the Red Moon-class and had been formally accepted in service ten years ago. It had been by all accounts a generalist scout cruiser, one destined to fight one-on-one the scouts of the rebel navies and patrol hundreds of light-years with a minimum of resupply and spare parts. It had been launched in 288AAC...and the chief supporter of this class had been one High Admiral Lucerys Velaryon.

Following the death of the war hero at the Battle of the Arbor, the Noble Houses had fought a shadow war to grab dozens of small companies who had participated in the construction of this class. The direct result had been that the updates on sensors and fire control for the Red Moon-class were unavailable and would continue to be so until the end of times. The arrival of the Gratitude and Endurance classes – poor copies of the Red Moon-class - in 294AAC out of the Buckwell and Langward shipyards was not worth commenting.

There were hundred similar stories across the fleet. Like with the Magma starfighter, corruption, incompetence and inexperience were creating hundreds of problems and as smallfolk were banished from anything more prestigious than a Lieutenant rank, the readiness of individuals declined.

"Your Highness, our arrival at Moat Cailin is imminent," the voice of the captain broadcasted in her room's communication-link interrupted her dark thoughts.

"I will join you on the bridge in a few minutes," Visenya answered, trying at the very least to sound polite. It was not like she wanted to strangle the man with his own intestines...oh wait it was exactly what she had in mind. The man had forbidden her to touch the simulators onboard after she beat the top scores of his men in her warm-up. Just for that, her vengeance was going to be terrible.

"Thank you, your Highness," and the exchange was over.

Visenya uttered a few curses shortly after. The Senior Captain of the _Night Spear_ was seriously annoying her. She had not discovered how many masters he was serving but it was quite certain he had given commands to his crew to know each and every one of her moves. The Crown Intelligence Agency and the King seemed a given. House Stokeworth had to come in somewhere since the Captain was a distant cousin.

"Time to dress for the circus, I suppose," the silver light of this mission was the fact she had not to constantly be careful about her words in private: none of the perfidious harpies who pretended to be her servants had come with her. In the Red Keep, there was nowhere you could hide from spies...on the _Night Spear_ at least her quarters were a refuge after she destroyed the bugs and other monitoring devices the imbeciles continued to install day after day.

The black clothes based on the spacefighter uniforms were removed. As much as she delighted breaking protocol when she could get away with it, this was not a time where it was advisable to do it. The Northerners of Moat Cailin may have seen the holo-news, but this was the first time they would see her and first impressions were primordial. The tutors her genitor had hired in service of House Targaryen had at least managed to tell her that much.

The massive wardrobe was opened and the trial of clothing started. Visenya could swear she heard the laughter of an invisible audience behind her, but dressing correctly was a complicated affair for a Princess of House Targaryen.

First, it was best to avoid the colours of the Lords Paramount in formal receptions unless you had family ties with them and were expressly invited by them to don their colours. Arriving in yellow-black at Storm's End had been the cause of four wars between Andals and First Men in ancient times.

Secondly, you didn't dress in the colours of the Lords Paramount's rivals in the Sector. In the Northern Sector, this meant no pink for the Red Kings of House Bolton had made it their emblem after skinning the opposition.

Thirdly, the appearance of a red dragon on your attire was greatly encouraged. Accordingly, it was better to forget the idea of a black dragon anywhere nearby. For a strange reason, people were still afraid of the Blackfyres. This was illogical in the extreme. The Heirs of Daemon Blackfyre had utterly failed at conquering the Seven Sectors and the more rebellions they did, the fewer victories they achieved. During the last attempt, they had not managed to set foot on a Westerosi planet. The Starks, Arryns, Tullys and Baratheons on the other hand had come quite close from toppling the Iron Throne.

There were many more rules...she had not bothered learning them.

After a few seconds of reflexion, she decided the red uniform with the black cloak was a safe choice. The latter had the three-headed red dragon of course. Visenya tied her long silver hairs in a ponytail, and gave a long look at her appearance in the mirror. There were no servants to act horrified at her haste or at the lack of makeup on her face.

Five minutes later, she was on the bridge of the Night Spear and as usual her honour guard was waiting there and the dozens of officers bowed and scrapped in front of her. It was easier than ship maintenance, yes. But if the Smith didn't dare voice any objection at their behaviour, who was she to remind them of their duties?

"Your Highness, we will be in orbit around Moat Cailin in fifteen minutes," affirmed the Senior Captain whose name she had not bothered to learn. The man had made clear he was going to be a nuisance for the time she had to spend in his ship, the only moment she was going to find a use for it would be to spread rumours he was the pet dog of her genitor. Hey, Joffrey had Clegane and Aegon had the Velaryon and the Greyjoy Heir. It was not impossible...

"Thank you, Senior Captain," she replied before taking the seat to her right. The man had almost a heart attack at the sight, but recovered fast though he was transpiring a lot. A woman taking the seat which was destined for a Squadron Commander was unprecedented in the Crown Navy...which was perhaps the reason the warships of this Sector had a tendency to not come home when the hostilities were declared. Returning her attention to the tactical display, she saw Moat Cailin in all its splendour. "Not an easy location to attack."

There weren't seeing much, of course. The four scout cruisers and the lone light cruiser escorting them were jamming their signals extremely well. Save the asteroids and the planet, it was impossible to say if a fleet or nothing awaited you behind every floating rock. Visenya's money was on a fleet.

The Captain gritted his teeth but didn't disagree openly. Good to know at least he wasn't that stupid.

The green orb grew to enormous proportions under their eyes. It wasn't a spectacle urging you to celebrate and depart for a holiday. The infamous planet looked already an awful place in orbit and having read the data on it, she was sure thing the appearance matched the danger.

"There is one Northern ship of the line," informed the Lieutenant of the tactical section. "It's a big bastard, all right."

And where there was a ship of the line, it was virtually certain there were others nearby. No Admiral worth the name was going to send one of its main units alone and unsupported.

"Sources from five years ago indicated their Blizzard-class was larger than the warships they used to support the Usurper..." grumbled the ship's second in command before paling when the image of it materialised on the display.

The ship of the line was simply a monster. Every part of its hull was either armoured or had weapon emplacements. It was a mass of durasteel and diverse alloys built to charge into the greatest missile salvoes and continue the fight after hundreds of hits.

There were no decorations save the name and a hull number. The hull was not a rectangular block, but it was as close as it could possibly for a mobile platform of war. Except the engines, there was simply no way to know where to direct your fire: the dark grey of the capital ship was projecting an aura of mystery and danger.

"Ship identified as the _Flames of Rebellion_ ," added a Lieutenant. "Sir, I don't think this is a Blizzard-class."

The second comment passed way over the head of many Crown officers. They were completely flabbergasted at the insolence of the Northerners. Visenya mentally applauded; it took some courage to give a ship a name like this one when you were still nominally loyal to House Targaryen.

"We always knew they must have commissioned new warships in the last years." The _Night Spear_ 's Captain looked unpleased. Perhaps it was the idea of explaining at home the Northerners had built new ships without anyone being aware of it. Or it was just the point his heavy cruiser and the two cruisers would not survive a minute against this titanic ship. "They need to replace old ships arriving reaching their limit of age too, you know."

"With all due respect Commander, this is not a replacement. This thing is a bloody threat! I don't think anyone but the Reach has bigger ships of the line."

"Calm yourself Lieutenant," his superior was not pleased at seeing one of his men lose his composure in front of her. "We have massive ships of the line and super-battleships in the Crown Navy, you know. The North may have a few big units like this...but their poor planets can't afford more than two of their squadrons before they all go bankrupt. Alone, our Sector can field twice their numbers."

"This information and the breach of trust it signifies will be reported to the capital," announced the political officer. Brown-haired and with hard traits, he had the fervour of a fanatic in his eyes. "The Starks have not stopped their rearmament projects like they promised at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion."

The murmurs and the sentences spoken on the bridge in the next minutes were not chanting the virtue of the Northern culture and its people. About two-thirds of the content was extracted from different holo-emissions sponsored by the services of the Master of Information.

"Commander, we are receiving a message from the ship of the line," the announcement had come from the communication section. "Vice-Admiral Seaworth is honoured by the presence of the Princess in the Moat Cailin System and invites her aboard the _Flames of Rebellion_ for a reception befitting her status."

The simple effect of the name increased the temperature on the bridge by several degrees. If the Captain and his officers had been angry before, you could literally see the smoke coming out of their ears. Okay, she was exaggerating a bit but not that much.

"They made a smuggler an Admiral?" was probably the most composed and correct exclamation which came out of their mouths. The rest of the outbursts were far more insulting.

"King Aerys should have burned the whole Sector to cinders while we had them on the ropes..." and it was not a warrant officer but the second of the _Night Spear_ who voiced this horrifying comment.

The conversation wasn't returning to proper levels of intelligence so Visenya decided to intervene.

"Prepare my shuttle Senior Captain," the Princess ordered. "It would be rude to let the Admiral wait hours for my arrival."

"Of course, your Highness," agreed the obsequious officer, making a sign for several guards in red and black to follow her. And to think, he believed himself clever.

The travel to her transport was accomplished swiftly. This more compensated the time she had to wait for a 'proper escort' to be constituted...for some reason the Lieutenant which should have accompanied her was unsuitable and was replaced – sound the trumpets – by three Lieutenants in total and five warrant officers of the bridge. Visenya was confident the bridge was not going to perform very efficiently if they had a fight on their hands.

Half an hour later, their shuttle was making the final approaches to land on the Northern ship of the line. The closest they came, the more she saw her first impression was justified: this warship was a monster. Everything in this ship's appearance screamed aggression and sturdiness. The lines of weapons were uncountable and were presented like the murder holes of a fortress. The armouring presented no weakness. This was a hull built for war. It could have no other function and certainly wasn't going to lead peaceful expeditions for Guilds or the great trade companies.

Their landing took place in a bay which was as grey as the exterior paint. The name of the ship was on the back wall and there was a shield or arms: a sword enshrouded in flames. Otherwise, it was just grey, grey and grey. It was...dull. She wasn't going to affirm the Tyrell were right to paint every corridor and shower room in bright colours, but a bit of decoration had never killed anyone.

This was not the only thing which was different from all her arrival. Despite being a bit far in the succession to the throne, her presence in general was deemed sufficient for Lords to welcome her with a few thousand troopers and a full committee of officers.

"Targaryen arriving!"

The usual call resonated...and the hangar really looked deserted. There was a man in the grey clothes and the stars of a Northern Admiral, sure enough. But he had about forty guards to form a double column, five of his officers –certainly his staff – and a group of young men and women behind him.

It was certainly the smallest welcoming committee she had ever seen in her life. And when she descended the metallic ramp, not one of them bowed. Visenya did her best not to wince or show her contrariety. It was a blow for her feelings, but the big problem lied elsewhere. The gold-clad officers following in her steps had already been unhappy in the shuttle and this refusal to acknowledge Royal authority did not make them less furious.

"You stand in presence of Princess Visenya Targaryen, daughter of the Great King Rhaegar Targaryen, Sovereign of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Sectors, Protector of the Realm and Shield of the Faith! Bow Admiral!"

The exclamation was out of the senior Lieutenant's mouth – a young man of twenty-five name days who had coloured his hair silver in a vain attempt to receive her favours – before she had the occasion to tell him not to be stupid.

"I have a very delicate physical condition, fragile kidneys and can't bow easily," replied the man who must be Davos Seaworth. The lie was so obvious she had to stop a guffaw in her throat. The Vice-Admiral was slim and looked like a man in perfect health.

The hint of rebelliousness was evident...and the officer of the _Night Spear_ seized the bait without thinking.

"You will bow or it will be war!" The man made a big show of putting his right hand on the grip of his gun in the holster. She would never know if it was a bluff or he really intended to use it. A second later, three detonations partially deafened her and the body of the Lieutenant explored in a shower of blood and various human fluids. One shot in the head and two in the torso, the big rifles of the grey battle-armours had not left anything to chance.

"Don't try to grab your weapons. Place your hands on your heads if you value your life." The Admiral's thin smile had been replaced by a far more dangerous expression.

Obviously, two of the guards didn't agree with the 'suggestion' and received the same treatment, dead before they touched the floor.

"You know, nothing good is going to come from these actions," she said as calmly as she could while putting her hands on her head as commanded. "My genitor has lost all his marbles and the moment he hears you killed his men, there is going to be war."

"Good reasoning, which is why we have sent a false message with a raven-drone and the Captain personal codes to inform the King your flotilla is travelling with you to Winterfell."

Visenya tried hard not to think about the fact their communications were completely and utterly compromised.

"In the best scenario, it will give you only a few months," two months, perhaps three if the Small Council and the rest of the power-that-be were long to react. "Don't do this, Admiral. The King is not up to the task of reigning but..."

"But he is not worth the millions of lives his removal will cost?" gently asked the former smuggler.

"Yes," Visenya said.

"The entire Northern Sector and Lord Stark disagree." A Captain next to the Admiral retorted. "As long as the South continues to kiss the feet and the ass of this Rapist, all our worlds will be in danger of annihilation."

"The Crown will destroy you! The Reach has ten times your number in ships of the line! Our Sector has more than twice your numbers!" exploded the youngest Lieutenant.

"Yes, yes," the tone of Admiral Seaworth was absolutely unimpressed. "The Redwyne fleet was broadcasting on all frequencies seventeen years ago my doom was imminent and my cause futile," a small smile lightened his common visage. "Yet here I am."

The former smuggler's eyes watched again the Lieutenant.

"But we aren't going to fight a war and then kill the King of Westeros," and for a strange reason the reasonable voice scared her more than a thousand screams and warmongering proclamations. "The owner of the Iron Throne will be removed first. We have other enemies to fight and the moment your tyrant is removed all the potential claimants are going to fight each other in a bloodbath of galactic scale."

Visenya wanted to say the Northerner he was wrong. But he was far too well-informed, Seven damn it. Joffrey, Viserys and Aegon hated each other and before her departure their ties had been severed like they had never existed. It was already a minor miracle nobody had done something to inflame the court. If her genitor died...they were going to set Westeros aflame.

"You may be right, but it is not going to give you victory in the end."

"Don't underestimate the Northern fleet."

The ranks of the Northern officers opened behind the Admiral and a young woman came into view. For a moment, Visenya stayed with her mouth wide open. The grey eyes and the silver hairs were really like hers. She was slightly taller and their traits were not perfectly similar, but she could say that if she wore grey instead of red and black, few men and women at King's Landing would be able to say who was the Princess of King's Landing and who was the Northern twin.

"Baela?" She asked bewildered. The Royal orders had called for her sister to come at Moat Cailin but given deployment delays and the insubordination of the potential rebels, Visenya had not entertained very big hopes she was going to meet her twin.

"Unless there's another twin sister travelling the stars and raising hell against the Iron throne..." Even their smirks were close. "You should quit the red. It doesn't suit you at all." Their hands were joined and Visenya realised that while Baela did not look a muscular woman, her grip was stronger than hers.

"And your grey is dull," she replied. "By the suns and stars of Westeros, how can you live in these colourless places without enduring mental depression?"

"It is a question of habit...we prefer security over comfort." Then the joining of the hands became a big hug. When it stopped and her eyes deviated to the left, her eyes fell on something which was either a hallucination or the biggest wolf in existence. It was an albino too, with its white fur and its big red eyes.

"Is it yours?"

That the Northern ships were more brutal and fear-inspiring than the Crown was not difficult to give them, but if their pets were also better now, it was really unfair...

"No, it is Joanna's." Baela sighed. "I have something...more...exotic."

The way this was articulated let her to believe she was not speaking of a parrot from the Summer Sector.

"I still think your war is a dangerous folly." The war provoked by the kidnapping of her mother had caused millions of death and the secession attempt known as the Greyjoy Rebellion had killed millions more. "I don't love King Rhaegar but the destruction of Westeros is going to kill billions."

"Nothing what I or you will do will prevent this war. It is too late."

It was like watching your own reflexion in a mirror. Why she could not endure this? Why did she felt so cold and tired?

"The pack can offer you protection and a haven at Winterfell. Come with me and meet our uncle. Your escort will await you there until you've made your decision."

"By this point, the war will have commenced."

"Yes," her twin replied without flinching.

Seen like this, there were not a lot of options. She could reverse course and flee southwards, but if the hostilities were so close, only a Lord Paramount or someone higher could offer her a real hope of protection. Aegon would love to put her in his bed again, but his Tyrell betrothed would kill her the moment she had her back turned and she was not eager to have her heart broken a second time. She did not trust Joffrey and she lived even less the Lannisters. The Admiral of Dragonstone was somewhat more acceptable but his intentions were a mystery for her. Shiera and Daeron were nice, but too young to really matter. The potential rebels would see her as a Targaryen or a dynastic problem and the history of the Dance made no mystery that your age was not a protection when someone decided you were a risk.

"I will go to Winterfell, then." After a moment of silence, she added the same words Princess Elia had supposedly told before the Gold Fists stormed the throne room. "Let the galaxy burn."

* * *

" _Luck is the hidden power of House Tyrell. But it is best to remember that nothing is eternal and chance can turn at the unlikeliest moment_..." attributed to Lord Petyr Baelish, 297AAC.

 **Lady Asha Greyjoy, 10.08.300AAC, Horn Hill System**

Thirty-eight.

This was the number of marriages she had participated in either as the bride, a wedding witness, a maid of honour or a spectator since her fifteenth name day and the moment she was a hostage of the greenlanders.

After today, it would be thirty-nine.

The nobles of the Reach loved organising unions after unions where it was raining food and drink, fireworks lit the sky and jewels, air-cars, necklaces, precious metals and creation from every firm working in the luxury industry were gifted to their friends.

As the handmaidens helped her don the dark blue corset, Asha remembered the last two occasions where she had been supposed to play the role of a blushing and enamoured bride.

The first man the high and pompous Master of Highgarden had decided she would marry had been named Ser Philip Rosekeeper. Before the revelation in Highgarden green halls, she had never even heard of this House and half an hour of research had been necessary to learn this was a Knight House sworn to House Oldflowers.

In uncountable receptions and parties, Asha had heard the Reachers complaining the Ironborn were unsubtle, murderous and insulted everyone as long as they could get away with it. Well the Hightowers, the Tyrells and their clique should look in a mirror sometimes. She had got past her twentieth name day when the 'proposal' came. It was not a scandalous age for a wedding...except the groom was seventy-one years old. House Rosekeeper was also poor and in dire economic straits, and it did not take a genius to realise this was a way for the Lord Paramount to save a loyal House and grab the gold of her dowry.

The moment she had seen the corpse she was supposed to be marry, Asha had known she was going to kill him.

Since splitting his ugly face in two with an axe was impossible – the Tyrell guards were slow and dumb but they would react eventually – Asha had stolen some powders in one of her escapades in the labyrinth of streets of Highgarden City. Not knowing exactly the poison's lethality, she had poured four doses at regular intervals in his drinks the night before the ceremony.

Contrary what the rumours said and to her great surprise, Ser Philip Rosekeeper had managed to walk to the altar the morning after. It was all he had been able to do however. He had spat a lot of blood while the septon babbled his religious nonsense and ten minutes after saying 'I do', he was dead.

Obviously, the marriage was declared null and void, as there had been no bedding to seal the vows. The sons Philip Rosekeeper had sired during his three first marriages had not been happy at all but she didn't care. Asha had took back the kraken cloak of her family, and two nights later she had joyously burned the rose-tower-sun cloak her 'husband' had placed over her shoulders. Last time she had heard of House Rosekeeper, most of their possessions had been seized by their creditors and four of the men had joined the army in a last attempt to reclaim honour, influence and wealth.

The second marriage attempt had taken place in 298AAC, two years after the first. She was going to give credit to this bitch of 'Queen of Thorns' and her granddaughter, they had conspired fast and in secret. She had been informed of the union four nights before, and from that moment she had been surrounded by hundreds of guards, handmaidens and servants. There was simply no way to acquire a poison in these circumstances.

Strangely, it was like they expected she wouldn't be pleased with their choice. It was a wonder why. His name was Ser Dorian Cypress. Unlike Rosekeeper, House Cypress was not impoverished or anything like this; it was a Masterly House sworn to House Oakheart and their warships had fought at Ashford, the Trident and Pyke.

The problem in this union had not been the greed of the man. The problem was his appearance and his age. Dorian Cypress had fought in many battles against the rebels and in the 'glorious victory' of House Targaryen in the Trident System, he had been trapped in a compartment when a Stark heavy cruiser had reduced it to a wreck in a storm of plasma and lasers. Supposedly, he was unarmed below the waist. This was not something she had intended to verify. His face, well it was a nightmare of scars, and his age – he was past his fifty name days – were not his prime qualities.

Ser Dorian Cypress could have given classes of odiousness and ill-behaviour to her eldest brothers. The man hated House Greyjoy since one of his brothers had been killed in the Fall of Pyke. He was extremely violent: he had beaten one of his servants in public with his bare hands for a trifle.

Asha could not thank the Tyrells enough to give her such a delightful companion. One hour before the end of festivities and the dreaded bedding, Ser Dorian Cypress had been found in the men's toilets with three silver knives in the back and his head in the toilet bowl. Morale of the story: you really, really should pay your servants in time and hour least they decide to find extra-salary elsewhere.

There had been some voices which had risen against her, but being in the middle of the great hall and surrounded by hundreds of guests and guards who had never stopped watching her, they had been unable to find any evidence she was the culprit. Soon the murder had been quietly removed from the minds and memories by the Queen of Thorns. It wouldn't do at all for the questionable habits and actions of a war-hero to be brought under deep scrutiny.

And thus her second marriage had ended here and there.

To be sure, her two – very short – unions were small events. House Greyjoy had lost everything in this idiotic Rebellion – if Uncle Rodrik had not intervened she would not even have the tiny protection of the dowry – and the grooms were not scions of Noble Houses.

There had been far greater gatherings of the Reach elite, the greatest and most remarked being of course the marriage of Lord Mace Tyrell's own sons. In 296AAC, his second son Garlan had married the eldest daughter of the Lord of Cider Hall Leonette Fossoway. Five months ago, it had been the turn of Willas Tyrell. The Heir of Highgarden had wed Lady Leyla Cordwayner, sole daughter of the Lord of Hammerhal.

For this exceptional event, the Lord Paramount of the Reach had not hesitated to open large his treasury chests. No expense had been judged too unreasonable. Swans had been painted pink, the main avenue to the Great Crystal Sept had been paved in white marble and several tons of fresh golden flowers had been thrown before the groom and the bride's arrival. Seven days of festivities had been proclaimed and it had been excess after excess of bad taste. To the fireworks taking the appearance of each Reach House's colours to the litany of poems praising the Fat Rose, billions of dragons must have been spent to satisfy the Warden of the South's monumental ego.

Of course, it had likely been the last marriage of a Tyrell of the main branch for awhile. Margaery Tyrell was promised to the Crown Prince and her marriage was to take place at King's Landing. As for the younger son, there were enough whispers and murmurs around for her to know women would not be desired in the marital bed.

"A last touch, My Lady," informed her one of the handmaidens. Asha did not move, sigh or breathe too loudly. She had learned the hard way the women hired to prepare her for her marriages didn't like it at all and their tools could be really painful when they entered contact with her skin.

"You should take better care of your hairs," added another with a pink headband.

Asha did not roll her eyes, these long hours of dressing-torture had taught her there was no way to counter the assertions of these wedding fanatics and keep your sanity. Minor consolation, it was better than her two aborted marriages. At the first, the Tyrells or the groom had insisted she was presented at the wedding with a pink dress and her hairs had received a new blonde dye.

She had burned every holo-image and destroyed every bit of data which could possibly show her an image of that day.

The second groom had wanted her to wear a dark green dress and no undergarments. If it had not been against tradition, the Greyjoy cloak would not have been accepted during the wedding ceremony. Images and recordings had been destroyed too, by the way.

"The robe, my Lady," declared a handmaiden...and Asha had to admit that this dress was way better than the two previous ones, not that this was a hard achievement. It was a very elaborate piece of cloth. It was dark blue. It also thankfully appeared to be a light material, as the city of Archer's Bridge, capital of the Horn Hill System, was in its summer season.

The next minutes passed rather quickly. The dress and all the accessories were added. It was not very comfortable and the corset under the dress forced her to adopt a completely different posture. The worst part was undoubtedly the very high dark blue heels she was forced to put her feet in. The first steps were really dolorous. It had been two years since she had used infernal contraptions like these ones. She had not missed it.

Her hands disappeared in silk blue-coloured gloves and for the first time in several hours she could watch herself into a two metres-tall polished mirror. To her shame, she had to admit in the privacy of her mind she looked good. All her sessions in sword training and the physical exercise she did at Highgarden had let her remain in top condition and while the robe and the rest were conservative, they did not hide her curves that much. Asha was looking like a young woman in dark blue with some lighter shades of blue here and there, and between her black hairs and the cloak of her family...she looked good. The necklace which had been tightened around her neck had a large sapphire. This alone cost far more money than she put in her clothes purchases for an entire year.

She would never admit her satisfaction in public, of course.

The handmaidens dispersed like a group of scared sheep once their work was done, though the arrival of a middle-aged Lady in the room may have played its part too. The new arrival was not a grumbling old crone, but her best years were past her as her brown hairs were showing tiny shreds of grey. Her long green robe was far more conservative than Asha's blue dress, but they shared the exquisite facture. The woman was also wearing a couple of silver bracelets and her necklace had been created around a big ruby. The big ears were the biggest drawback, she decided.

"I am Lady Melessa Tarly," the woman presented herself. Despite herself, Asha felt herself tense. It was all she could do with these heels and the restricting her clothes she had. This woman would be her mother-in-law in a few hours. "I have heard a lot of things about you, Lady Asha Greyjoy."

The eyes fixed her mercilessly and for a moment Asha was brought back years in the past when she tried to convince her Uncle Rodrik she had not taken great joy in throwing a large book at the other end of the library.

"Do you intend to kill my son?"

"No," and she was sincere. Killing a Knight or a man standing in the succession of a Master House was very different from murdering the Heir of a Noble House. She was also not at Highgarden, her hostage status would not save her if the greenlanders decided she was to be eliminated before the next morning.

"Good," Lady Melessa approached her before whispering in her ear the rest of her sentence. "My son is the greatest treasure I have left and if I lose him because of you, the demise of Ser Dorian Cypress will look like a gesture of compassion."

Asha repeated herself she was not afraid, but the slight shiver in her body could not be controlled. The Tarly Lady then took her left hand and slowly escorted out of the large dressing/marriage preparation room. Any other time she would have been angry to show such a weakness, but the heels were really killing her and she had to control her respiration with this damn corset.

It was a short walk and yet it seemed like she had climbed to the summit of Ten Towers when they arrived to the air-cars. Hundreds of servants, guards and other men and women were around, but she paid them relatively little heed, concentrated as she was to keep her equilibrium.

The vehicle which was to be their persona ride was a marvel. Red on the outside, the interior of the air-car was full of first-class leather and suits which looked like they had been designed for a king's big backside. A surface of darkened supraglass was separating them from the pilot and the guard in front. Lady Melessa and she were the only passengers aboard.

The motors roared, they tightened their security belts and in the next seconds they were in the air, leaving them enjoying the view of Archer's Bridge. It was still the morning, and the buildings were shining under the brilliant yellow sun. Unlike Highgarden, Archer's Bridge was not built in the plains or near an ocean; the first inhabitants had settled in a valley encircled by high and snowy mountains. Several peaks had still a lot of white right now, in early summer. It was rumoured there were a lot of bunkers and secret military installations based under them.

"You are lucky, you know."

The words left her a bit angry. She did not felt very lucky. Living at Harlaw with Uncle Rodrik and Mother had been fine. Theon and she were away from their brothers and the other 'uncles'. The members of their family which were at Pyke had loved punching or humiliating them. Honestly, she could not remember shedding a tear for them. Why should she? They had tormented her younger brother and the things they said while they were pretending to share jokes with their friends...

Harlaw beat being a hostage of the Tyrells without trying. By all rights, they shouldn't have the right to marry her or to decide anything for her future. In fact, they should have released her at least a couple of years ago...but the deteriorating situation in the Iron Sector meant there was no chance they were going to send the insurrections a potential figure to rally around. And as for her 'rights', the Tyrell were behaving like their masters: they were the winners and whatever they decided, ordered or invented had to be right.

"How so?" Asha tried to remove the bitterness out of her tone.

"Before my son decided to talk too long with a pretty young Lady, the Queen of Thorns had plans for you my dear."

"Knowing she was behind my first two weddings, I'm sure I am not going to like whoever she had ready for my hand."

The mother of Lord Samwell Tarly made a small smile.

"There were talks to give your hand to the Heir of Lord Dunn, Victor."

"I don't know him." In the Iron Sector, she had known all the big players and their heraldries by heart at fourteen. But the number of Houses and emblems existing in the Iron Sector was just insignificant compared to the size of the Reach nobility. There were sixty Noble Houses to begin with, each with dozens if not hundreds of cousins and the like. And she was a foreigner hostage of the Tyrells, she was not introduced to everyone.

"You didn't miss anything," and there was a hint of something darker in the Reacher's mouth. "He is thirty and has already buried two wives in 'hunting accidents'. But assuming you managed to get rid of him, there were talks of giving you to Garth the Gross."

That name she knew very well. He was Mace Tyrell's uncle and the Seneschal of Highgarden. He had a reputation of debauchery and several cases his name had been uttered in slaver trials. This was not someone she wanted to seat near, much less share his bed.

"What is her brilliant plan?" This was something which made her curious. "Did she want to get rid of these men?"

"It is difficult to know what this old scheming bat has in her head," replied prudently Lady Melessa. "There is only one rule: don't underestimate her."

Asha clicked her tongue unconsciously.

"You disagree," it sounded like an affirmation, not a question. She didn't deny it.

"I don't think she is a formidable opponent, really. For all her reputation, she is just the Sector's Master of Whisperers and the games she play are in her backyard where her voice is the law."

This was something which had always annoyed her. She wasn't the Heiress of House Greyjoy. Forgetting a moment there was not much of anything to inherit, Theon was the Heir right now and even if he died, she would not become the Lady of Pyke. The Ironborn would never tolerate a woman in a position of power, and one which had been hostage for ten years in the home of their enemies even less. Yes, they could grab her dowry and have a weak claim...but this was all they could do and if they thought it was going to stop the occupation problems their garrison forces faced, she had some lands at the bottom of the acid lakes of Pyke to sell them.

"I am not an enemy worth fighting," she added. "The strength of the Iron Sector is no more."

Her interlocutor shook her head in a silent 'no'.

"The battles you consider worthy to be fought and the ones the Queen of Thorns invites herself to are a world apart."

Asha chuckled.

"Yes, I noticed. They crush their opponents by throwing at them hundreds of capital ships and then they take your lands and humiliate you until you have no choice but to revolt."

"It worked," Lady Tarly pointed out.

"No, it didn't," she countered. Before her first marriage and the massive increase of guards she had shadowing her, she had studied the data of the failed Rebellion in one of the tactical displays which were left available to the high-ranked nobles visiting the capital of the Reach. The results had been edifying. No matter the tactics and the scenario chosen, House Greyjoy and the Ironborn always lost. In the best simulations, the forces of Father held for five years and tripled the amount of casualties of the greenlanders. It changed nothing, except the point the Iron Throne executed the Fall on all planets in the aftermath, not just Pyke. "My House couldn't win alone and unsupported."

For fifteen seconds Lady Melessa watched the mountains and the sky before continuing the conversation.

"There have always been concerns similar to yours in the Noble Houses. Not everyone is convinced the road to the stars created in the aftermath of the Usurper's War is the correct course." Something that suspiciously sounded like a curse left the lips of the older woman before she looked her straight in the eyes. "I advise you not to share this opinion in public. As a Greyjoy, your opinion had little importance and could be ignored. Tomorrow, you will be my son' wife and your speeches will carry the will of Horn Hill with them."

"I will keep it in mind," Asha promised.

The red air-car progressively lost altitude and the progression continued half a meter above the ground, escorted by a few security vehicles and other brand new engines which looked like ground starfighters for rich people.

This was then she saw the people. Asha had seen the crowds that celebrations like these attracted at Highgarden, but never for her. Here in the great street they had just arrived, there had to be tens of thousands men, women and children. There were thousands of flowers and decorations. Four endless columns of soldiers were forming a human barrier, allowing the air-cars to progress at a snail's pace.

Minute after minute, her estimations were revised upwards. The streets were literally black with people, there were spectators on every balcony and the flashes were so intense they were challenging the sun.

"Half of your capital must be here today," there were giant holo-screens in the distance for the spectators not able to come into the main street but those two seeped to be under assault.

"I made today a public holiday and the preparations tabled for a minimum of ten million people," Asha was not that clever, but she could tell when someone was smirking at her amazement and Lady Melessa was doing it. "I didn't manage to convince my son to experience with girls before, so you will be his first. Please make sure his first night is enjoyable. I want grandchildren in a few years, not in three decades."

Asha deeply blushed after the last remark. She tried to regain some sense of calm and serenity but her face had to be redder than a tomato.

"I...I never did it. Not with a man."

In the Highgarden System, there simply had been no man she was going to authorise to be that close to her. Women were fine since she could easily take control and the Queen of Thorns could prove nothing. But she had really not been willing to give House Tyrell a weapon against her.

"In this case it's time to learn, Lady Asha."

The driver stopped, as they were now to the left of a gargantuan white monument. It was a great sept, and while it was not the height and the width of the religious architecture in the capital of the South, it was big nonetheless. Ten metres-tall angels were sculpted with an incredible precision next to the representations of the Seven, scenes of the greenlanders' holy books and victorious Knights returning in heroes.

The door on her side opened and slowly the niece of the Lord Paramount of the Iron Sector left the calm of her ride for the brilliant atmosphere of Archer's Bridge. Gods, it was loud. Loud, brilliant and perfumed; the moment she stood outside it was almost like a blow. The crowd screamed...after a couple of seconds she knew they were cheers.

A gesture of her hand and they saluted back by hundreds of thousands, with the power of fifty orchestra behind them. Step by step, she walked to the massive white gates waiting for her in the distance. Several times she stopped and saluted, bring new waves of acclamation. In reality, her feet were killing her and she needed badly the rest. Her lungs were also tiring really fast...it was kind of humbling as she had believed to be in good health and ready for a battle or two. Her head and her mind were also becoming more and more chaotic. She was going to be married, and for good this time. There were no murders planned on her part, no evasion attempt ready and no stratagem to execute.

Climbing the fifty-plus steps of the sept was even worse, and she was really grateful once it was over. Thanks to whatever deities existed or not, she had not fallen once. Just as this thought came to her, another procession was coming from the opposite stairs. Asha had approached the Horn hill sept by the left; this one was coming from the right while ceremonially the centre – and the great avenue – was left for the journey back after the union was officially proclaimed.

At last, she met the man she was supposed to marry.

He was young. She had known it, but it was the first point. He was also a bit big-boned, however the large green-and-red traditional suit accompanied by a great furred cloak woven in the huntsman's image was making him bigger, not slimmer.

It was not the 'Jonquil' these stupid maids stuck to the rear of the Tyrells were in adoration with, and he would need to lose some weight, but compared to the first two grooms, he was really acceptable.

"Lady Asha, I..."

Men were men and he had probably nothing really intelligent to say by that point. Asha seized his right hand and raised it in the air before turning forty-five degrees for the uncountable greenlanders waiting below.

As far as her eyes could see, the city erupted in applause and cheers. The ruckus was huge, but she heard the Lord of Horn Hill's whisper next to her.

"Maybe this marriage won't be so bad..."

* * *

" _Amateurs strategists will study a hundred battles trying to gain some insight from their predecessors. Experts will study logistics, for they will know this is where ninety-nine battles out of a hundred are decided..."_ attributed to Vice-Admiral Davos Seaworth, 300AAC.

 **Lady Calla Peake, 10.08.300AAC, Starpike System**

"Calla, be reasonable."

These words could have been calming and nice...if their owner could find his courage and look at her directly in the eyes.

It was not the case. The Lord of the Goldengrove System aka Admiral Mathis Rowan aka her Father was watching the zoo of Star Mountain on the other side of the great window.

This didn't surprise her. Deep inside, Calla had always known the man was a coward. She had just underestimated the limits of it.

"I think I am reasonable," she replied in a betrayed tone while she felt nothing of the sort. "You want me to steal the blueprints of the Starpike Defence System in the databases of my beloved husband. This is treason and it has only one punishment if discovered."

The word 'beloved' was anything but serious of course, and they both knew it. The Rowan guards had escorted her from Highgarden to Starpike and watched over her at every hour of the day and the night. One might say they had done everything except saying 'yes' in front of the altar.

Titus Peake was not the worst husband of the Reach. But it didn't mean he was satisfying either. Five minutes after her robe had been ripped apart and the bedding started, the man was already deep asleep. This was really a pitiful sexual performance.

"No," she answered after ten seconds where she feigned a deep concentration. "No, I don't think I will. I like my head where it is and didn't you always repeat with mother a marriage is based on confidence and trust?"

This time her father finally stopped pretending and turned around, abandoning his observation of non-existent wild animals. He appeared furious. Too bad, she was not really happy with him too.

"You are my daughter," he began before she interrupted him.

"It's funny how you remember this when you need me," the new Lady of Starpike said mockingly.

"You have only yourself to blame for your marriage."

She burst in laughter and this time she really didn't need to feign it. Oh, her poor father was so clueless, wasn't he?

"Let me remind you father, that I was the undisputed Heiress of Goldengrove before you decided to marry me. Except you, no one in this galaxy could change this. I didn't betray the Seven Sectors, I didn't sell military secrets to an enemy nation and I certainly didn't conspire against Highgarden. I was not guilty of any crimes..."

"You opened your legs to young men!"

"And?" Her reaction caught the Admiral in his great uniform completely out of the blue. "I was no longer a virgin at my wedding, true enough. But when half of the River Sector and the totality of the Crown Sector support their daughters when they jump into the bed of the Crown Prince or his half-brother, this is not exactly a problem."

She licked her lips, trying to see how uncomfortable she could make the great and mighty Lord Mathis Rowan.

"Is it because my lovers weren't silver-haired? Is it because I refused to bend the knee to the prim and proper Princess Margaery of House Tyrell? Was it because I was getting close to ugly realities and it is forbidden in the Reach to doubt the word of our masters?

"ENOUGH!" bellowed the Lord of Goldengrove before hissing between his teeth. "You clearly don't understand..."

"Let's stop this game, _Father_." The accentuation she placed on the last word made him retreat two steps. Like she had said, this man was really a coward.

"I understand perfectly the situation you are finding yourself in. As we speak, the fleets of the Reach Sector are able to muster one hundred and ninety-six ships of the line, three super-battleships, four hundred battlecruisers, seven hundred heavy cruisers and over half a million starfighters plus whatever squadrons you sent to the Iron Sector. There are also a multitude of scout cruisers and old warships Highgarden has not judged useful to mothball."

Nonchalantly, she began to circle around her genitor. The man who should have passed down to her the Lordship when he died, but who had preferred her far more pliant sister Rosa.

"This is a great fleet, I must admit. In the last three hundred years, there has never been an armada of this size mustered by a single Kingdom. And with the help of the Crown, River and Storm loyalists, I have no doubt it is going to get bigger."

Her father appeared perplexed she was singing the praises of the Reach fleet. Good, the return to reality was going to be harder.

"But in reality, it is evident you have forged a dragon of paper," she asserted murderously. "Most of your warships were obsolete before their hulls were completed. Moreover, your good friend Mace Tyrell has failed to understand there was a reason no one had ever built a fleet this size. It was too dangerous. In previous wars, the Reach was an opponent like the others. This year, you are the Sector to crush before you can turn your military war machine against a single opponent."

"It doesn't matter," the idiot Admiral replied stubbornly. "Next year, we will have a fleet able to crush all Sectors decisively and-"

"You don't have a year," she cut him there. Honestly, common sense and contingency plans must die in a meeting where more than two Rose Admirals were present. "In fact, you don't have three months. You can thank your King and Mace Tyrell for that. The economy of the Storm Sector is near bankruptcy and Jon Connington is the most hated man of his Sector. The Lannisters, the Martells, the Brackens, the Freys, the Arryns, the Royces, the Starks...all these Houses are now the Reach enemies."

"But they don't need to defeat you," Calla replied charmingly. "They just have to fight."

"I don't understand," and for once, her father appeared completely sincere.

"It's simple, Father." She explained. "When the declaration of war will come, certainly from the Baratheons, Lord Mace Tyrell first reflex will be to call for his full muster."

"As well he should." Calla wondered who had given her the brain intellect she was using. Her mother had the conviction of a goldfish and her father...

Anyone of sense in the Game of Thrones had to leave his or her options open. This was the first rule of politics.

"We are speaking of at least ten billions of men, paid on average four hundred dragons a month." This was one of the lowest minimum wages in Westeros. The Lannisters paid more and knowing the tiny value the Lord of Casterly Rock gave to the lives of his men, this was saying very depressing things about her home Sector.

"So if the war last a year, Highgarden and the assembled Lords will have to pay one of their men four thousand and eight hundred dragons for his service, right?"

"Right," her father looked a lot less confident, perhaps understanding her point.

"Four thousand and eight hundred dragons by ten billion make four point eight trillion dragons. It's just their monthly salaries, though. The war pensions are another source of spending. We had around eighteen million dead in the Greyjoy Rebellion and all these brave martyrs had families. Now I realise many Lords defaulted on their secular obligations, but if we go to war, they will have no choice but to open their purses if they don't want mutiny or the recruiting offices staying empty. For a year, it will add five thousand dragons by eighteen million."

"You are finished?"

"I've just begun, Father." And she gave him another smile showing her perfect white teeth. "You know, you and your Lordly friends were so happy boasting to Westeros, Braavos, Pentos, Volantis and who knows else how large our fleet is that you forgot to consider the issue of fuel."

"We have fusion reactors, Calla," he reminded her like she was an imbecile. "Hydrogen is not exactly hard to find."

"In this case you will be happy to know that a ship of the line cost approximately the treasury seven point two billion a year in times of war just for this 'cheap' hydrogen. This is tabled on two major offensives per year, by the way. I've not been able to discover how much the monstrosities you call super-battleships use, everything about them is top-secret but I don't think it is cheaper."

This time the Lord was at last surfacing and presenting a cold, stone-faced expression.

"Your point?"

"Mace Tyrell sank so much of the Reach budget in the new rearmament programs that the money reserves are at their lowest level since 282AAC. By my estimates, you have exactly fourteen months to defeat all your enemies before the economy of the Sector disintegrates. There is no spare money, and certainly not to build a hybrid version of the Longbow Network. It is too late."

Mathis Rowan laughed like a fool. She raised an eyebrow but stopped speaking. Perhaps he had realised the truth in her reasoning...

"Ah, I'm glad Rosa is my Heiress."

Fine, she had wasted her breath.

"You're really a little viper, _daughter_ and I am glad you are no longer my successor."

Calla could have answered this insult by others. She could have told the lesser footrest of Mace Tyrell that when the dust settled, Goldengrove was going to have a new Lord and it was unlikely House Rowan would have any say in it. She could have informed him the partial analysis she had given him was tabling on a lot of optimistic predictions. She could have revealed to him there was a hole of four billion dragons in his private accounts for her special operations and for over two years he had been unable to notice it.

But why waste her time and her saliva? Mathis Rowan was a condemned man. If this galaxy and the Seven had any justice, he would die licking the shoes of his beloved Mace Tyrell.

"Leave this planet _Father_ , and never come back."

* * *

" _The Greyjoy Rebellion proved the Ironborn could shed their humanity and regress to the level of beasts. The years after these battles demonstrated we Westerosi can very well sink to their levels of indecency and amorality if given the chance_." Inspector-General Axell Florent, 298AAC.

 **Berona of the Broken, 12.08.300AAC, Great Wyk System**

Berona had never known anything but war in her life.

She had been seven when she had had her first state of it. The bloodthirsty monsters had come and razed her village, raped her mom before killing her and burned her ten year-old sister alive.

Ten years later, it was difficult to imagine there was anything but conflict. When they didn't fight against the occupier, there were scavenging whatever food, water, ammunition and medical supplies they could before taking a few hours of sleep and going back to the fight.

There was no peace on the planet of Great Wyk. There was only an eternity of war, a sky covered in the fumes of destroyed cities and crippled warships and lands so barren no harvest would ever be able to grow. The rains were now more acid than water.

The majority of the Rebellion had built the new cities deep underground. She had been there once. These were crowded places, and you could not stay often but what she had seen had given her hope. It was in one of these places real food was produced and fed the bellies of the very young children. They had factories where new guns, new weapons were forged to use against the monsters dirtying by their very presence the soil of the homeland.

But it had been ten months ago and once back to the surface, the loathed greenlanders controlled the skies and the big strongholds. The danger of the orbital strikes, flyers' bombardment and artillery barrage was always present. There were no frontlines on Great Wyk. If you were not tattooed and ready to sell your soul to the authorities, you were 'an enemy of the state' and a quick death was something to embrace because the armies of the Beast never gave it to you.

Berona was not stupid. Many in her group fought, but they would have stayed back home given a chance. They complained endlessly, fought reluctantly and were the first to throw down weapons before fleeing in the middle of the night. Anywhere else in this cursed galaxy, there would have been mass surrenders.

On Great Wyk, surrender was the sure path to a torture session with the monsters. And once they were done with you, the second they had tortured everything you could possibly give them, you were sent in front of a firing squad or one of the sick 'games' the Tyrant-General had started six years ago. Few had believed the monsters of the West could get worse, but the creation of the first 'Wipe Out Games' had proven that the Beast, the Manticore and their main lieutenants had still reserves of evil to draw on. Over one hundred men, women and children were summoned in an arena. There, they were forced to compete individually or collectively in obstacle races.

They had seized a lot of recordings from these monstrous shows, either by smugglers or grabbing all the possessions on the enemies' corpses.

If you didn't stop watching after the first minutes, you were either a psychopath or a butcher. Or both.

Civilians, rebels, dissenters or people who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time...it didn't matter to these demons. The obstacles were pools of acid, missiles, flamethrowers, laser fire, real landmines, and three meters-high metallic spears amongst others. The deaths were gruesome. And all the while there was the cheering and the applause of these psychopaths in the background.

No one had ever lasted the three hours required to qualify as a victory.

But Berona and the rest of Great Wyk were sure that whoever commented the bloody show would shoot the survivor if someone managed one day to triumph these impossible trials.

Her communication device cracked and whizzed before the voice of one of his commanders was heard.

"They are coming your way."

It was like something horribly cold was poured in her veins. Slowly she stood from behind the burned wall where she had been resting.

"How many of them are they?"

"Thousands," something died inside of her. "We need a couple of minutes and a diversion to evacuate the supplies and the workers."

"I will do my best," Berona replied. "For Liberty and for Great Wyk. Over."

"For Liberty and for Great Wyk."

Berona threw a stone against a carbonised pillar before beginning to give orders to her soldiers, alerted by the noise. A flare soared in the sky, providing light and attracting the attention of the enemy. Seconds later, several bombers went over their heads and in seconds, the explosions were spreading all around the destroyed village which had once been their base.

It was completely inaccurate fire, but her group had nothing to fire back. The bombers and the starfighters were way too high in the dark skies. The anti-air guns and the more powerful weapons were only released for very big operations or emergency situations. The defence of a ruined village by forty members of the Resistance was not answering to one of these definitions.

"Come on warriors! We fight in the darkness!"

"And we will until dawn returns!"

Grey, red and black shuttles roared in the sky before landing and disgorging hundreds of troops. From the valley in the distance, the dread shapes of artillery guns and tanks were arriving. The bombers returned and exploded a few ruins in the process. But they were all in position, crouched behind what must have been a manor's wall back in the ancient days. The battle-armours were surrounding them.

They were going to lose. Berona knew it, the enemies knew it and her terrified soldiers knew it.

"Why do we don't show them our colours?" asked one of the girls on her right.

"Quellon didn't manage to repair the sheet five days ago," the little boy didn't sound terribly sorry and replied with a song which was familiar to every Ironborn these last years.

"The Grey King sealed the Krakens far away in the storm..."

The forces of the Beast rushed for the kill. Dozens fell to the old landmines but there were more landing every second.

"And bound them in blood..."

A shell left a trail of blood, splinters and body parts where two boys had been moments ago.

"The stars will be ours and by the Void God..."

The light rifles they were all equipped fired at last. At anything except close-range, they could not pierce the battle-armours but they had to try.

"Where we will...we roam..."

The first greenlanders were upon them. Blades and lasers killed an entire wave but there were too many. One by one the Ironborn died.

"Yo, ho haul together, hoist the colours high

Heaves ho, thieves and reavers, never say we die..."

A colossal warrior came out of the smoke, crushing armoured and non-armoured fighters alike. His battle-armour was towering over the entire battlefield and all colours which had once been painted upon it were long gone, replaced by the red and black of human blood.

"Where are my supplies?" The monster roared.

 _Beast_.

"They are waiting for you in Hell," she retorted and stabbed two enemies as they had stupidly stopped fighting when their commander screamed his imprecation. The rest of his group were dying or pulverised to the four winds. She was alone.

"You will die slowly for this, scum," the helmet masked the face but she could sense the madness in these eyes.

The gigantic vibro-blade came too fast and suddenly there was an explosion of pain in her chest. Her right arm, her good sword arm, was shredded in blood.

"Wrong...choice..." the plasma grenade in her left hand was activated. It was not going to take down the Beast, fucking Terminator armours were too tough. But the rest of the sellswords would not be so lucky.

Berona of the Broken Rebellion Group was still smiling when she and over sixty sellswords hired by the Tyrant-General Gregor Clegane ended their lives in a massive explosion of blue and red.

* * *

" _In a few months, I think we will need a crane for the High Septon to walk from his bed to the Great Sept_." Anonymous septon, 299AAC.

 **Sparrow Dagger, 16.08.300AAC, King's Landing System**

The dining hall was a vision of gold, silver, platinum, diamond and crystal. There were sumptuous clocks in rare wood, spoons and forks in ivory, the chairs were looking like thrones fit for the backside of Lords.

It was in her opinion the symbol of everything that was wrong with the Faith.

The High Septon was eating at the end of the rectangular table. From the beginning of his two hours-long lunch, His Holy and Most Obese Greasiness had eaten five meals, where a single one could have fed a family of King's Landing for a day. The plates they were served in could have bought a modest life style to a couple of hundred beggars in the megalopolis this moon was orbiting.

Alysanne was sure these considerations had never entered the big head of the High Septon and the two fat-boned septons swallowing part after part of meat like they were small treats.

 _They believe themselves the Masters of Creation here_.

This was not the first time or the ten thousandth this thought came in her head. It was the pure truth and it helped.

The Great Sept was on Visenya's Moon, safely away from the dirty and unwashed masses living on the main planet. There were tens of thousands pilgrims landing and departing per day, but most of the estate knew no visitors but the septons and the septas maintaining the superb edifices imagined in his dreams by Baelor the Blessed.

It was the perfect place for the High Septon and his supporters to enjoy their degenerate activities.

Today it ended.

There were guards outside the room and four in the dining hall itself. Two were near the accesses to the kitchen and two near the doors. An obvious sign the man was not nearly as loved as he proclaimed to believe. Septas and septons were forced to disrobe more than once per day, for the Holy Fatness was fearful to be assassinated by a hidden blade. There were also two food-tasters near him, a risky task if there ever was one. Four of them had already died this year.

"Yes, yes," was mumbling the puppet of the King. "The times where the Faith wielded the blade are forever gone and I said..."

Alysanne didn't scream a loud battle-cry. She was a humble septa. She had played the role of a servant girl for the last two years. It was not her role to shout the defiance of the Heavens to these apostates.

"No existing army can conquer the stars, High Septon," she said softly and took his silver knife full of copious spiced sauce and meat juice from his surprised hand. "But the Faith alone can conquer the galaxy."

One strike, and the knife was now lodged in the throat of the High Pig. This was a really morbid spectacle, as the plate he was eating from got thrown over his white clothes and the blood mixed with the hot food. During his agony, he squealed and gurgled a lot. The Stranger was going to have fun judging this one.

"The Sparrows send their regards, High Glutton."

She had really overestimated the guards. By the time one managed to stab her with his long ceremonial sword, she had killed all the guests sitting around the table with a pair of knives.

* * *

 _The terrorist attacks executed on 16.07.300AAC and claimed by the Seven Sparrows were a major blow against the credibility of the Iron Throne._

 _Small Council members, military commanders and experts had promised these explosions would never happen again. To make this a reality, security measures had been considerably increased, private rights of the smallfolk in the street had been trampled and thousands of aspiring revolutionaries and terrorist apologists had been arrested without a trial._

 _Now the thousands of hours the Ministry of Information had spent is efforts on were rendered useless in an instant. Like the previous series of attacks, the terrorists struck seven times but the magnitude of their attack shook even the most jaded and cynic ambassador._

 _In high orbit, a hijacked hydrogen tanker was rammed into a space storage facility containing highly inflammable fertiliser. The monumental explosion killed over forty thousand people and destroyed sixteen ships of diverse tonnage. It would take five days to realise the target of this operation had been the death of Septon-Voice Burton, who was entertaining one of his mistresses in his private yacht._

 _In a great restaurant of King's Landing, Most Devout Lucas and fifteen men of his delegation were poisoned and expired in five hours of long agony._

 _In one of the underground circuits built for supersonic engines, fifty-three young men and women belonging to Master and Knightly Houses were at ground zero of a massive explosion. As their activities at the moment of their death would be best described as an orgy, the Goldcloaks and the Gold Fists never managed to identify all the victims for certain since there were more than one thousand dead in total._

 _The crew of a Behemoth, busy exploring the delights of pretty women in a whorehouse, were ruthlessly cut down by a storm of laser and grenades._

 _Five air-cars of a Faith mission which had just departed the Red Keep four minutes ago were shot down by anti-air missiles. The authorities refused to confirm it, but in the next hours the rumours spread another Most Devout had met his end._

 _The Ruby Sept, a project the Faith had invested billions dragons into, saw its grandiloquent and extremely expensive dome collapse seven days before its official inauguration. Hundreds of septons and septas died in the catastrophe, and the religious structure which should have been the third greatest sept-basilica of the King's Landing System was ravaged by flames and explosions. Tens of thousands workers would clear the rubble and secure the damaged walls in the aftermath of this heinous act. There were many debates within the Faith and the Royal circles to repair and rebuild. The Seven Sparrows could not be granted this victory, exclaimed the most ardent of the Faithful. But ultimately, less than a month later the beginning of the War of the Ten Warlords would sign the death warrant of this reconstruction hope._

 _The seventh attack was the one which caused the least amount of casualties, and yet caused the greatest shock in the religious sphere. A female servant killed the High Septon and his five guests during their lunch in the very heart of the Faith on Visenya's moon._

 _The Faith of Seven had just been decapitated and the holo-images which spread by millions in the streets of King's Landing revealed a tale of corruption, debauchery and ill-respect of their own rules. To say it caused tremendous damage in their crumbling hierarchy was a fair description._

 _The Seven Sparrows had just started a religious crisis when the political scene was already far from stable..._

Extract from The Sparrows and King's Landing: Terrorism and Intolerance by Sea and Sun Editions, 301AAC.

* * *

 **Lord Petyr Baelish, 17.08.300AAC, King's Landing System**

A constant among the hundreds of Small Councils he had participated in were the polite manners and the genial smile of Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers.

The eunuch was playing a role, obviously. They all did it. For all his dedication to the Iron Throne, the Master of the Crown Intelligence Agency was only human. Petyr was rather sure he must have murderous thoughts frequently when Lord Walter Whent declared it was a good die to increase the taxes for the six times in the Storm Sector this year. It was just an example chosen randomly. He could have affirmed Tommen Costayne was not going to receive prizes when his laws barred smallfolk and guild's affiliates from occupying high administration posts. The ruthless waves of arrests ordered by Alliser Thorne, the billions of dragons Tommen Lannister was borrowing like he was buying candy and the chaotic deployments of the fleet ordered by the High Admiral were causing more and more work for the Spider.

But it was extremely rare to see him abandon his smile or to lose composure in public. Hired by Aerys in a time most people around the ancient table were non-entities, the bald man knew the rules better than everyone.

It was not a good omen when he decided to break them.

In a decade of political infighting, pardon a decade of loyal service to the Iron Throne, Petyr Baelish could say Varys had really raised his voice and let his anger show twice.

Neither had been very good memories.

It looked today was going to be the third.

"IMBECILES!" bellowed the Master of Whisperers. "YOU ARE ALL IMBECILES! I AM SURROUNDED BY IMBECILES!"

The eunuch was widely considered to be the less military-inclined of the Councillors, which made a very unpleasant surprise when the large red ledger he had arrived to the meeting with was thrown directly in the Master of Coin's face.

"YOU WANT TO ORGANISE A CONTEST OF INCOMPETENCE, IS THAT IT?"

A Volantene vase which had been brought here under the reign of Jaehaerys II was grabbed by his ring-covered hands and got thrown on the other end of the room, missing the head of Lord Commander Arthur Dayne by mere centimetres.

"Please stop this, Lord Varys," ordered the Kingsguard who had been Rhaegar's shadow for as long as everyone remembered. "You forget your place..."

"AND YOU FORGET YOURS, SWORD-FUCKER! GO BACK POLISH YOUR PRECIOUS WEAPON AND LET ME SPEAK OR I WILL USE IT IN A WAY YOU WILL REMEMBER FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!"

Plague and chaos, Petyr could not remember anyone managing to beat the Sword of the Morning with just a glare but Varys was apparently doing it in his fury.

Yes, the best strategy was to sit comfortably and let the thunderstorm choose targets that weren't you. Really, he had never seen the spymaster that angry before. It was like decades of frustration had been unleashed in the wake of the new terrorist attacks.

The elderly Hand of the King cleared his throat.

Oh the big mistake.

"YOU ASSURED ME YOU WERE GOING TO USE YOUR POSITION TO STOP ALL OUR SECURITY PROBLEMS! WHY WERE FIVE MONITORING STATIONS OFF-LINE DURING THE ATTACKS? WERE THEY WATCHING PORNO MAGAZINES OR WERE THEY BUSY NEGOTIATING THEIR BRIBES WITH THE NEXT BLACK MARKET DEALER?"

Oh the former, definitely the former. Porno magazines sales were on the rise this year, he should know it: he owned five of them.

Ser Jaremy Rykker lowered his eyes when the hellish eyes turned in his direction, but not fast enough.

"YOUR GOLDCLOAKS ARE USELESS! THE SPARROWS INSTALLED THEIR MISSILES IN BROAD DAYLIGHT AND THEY DIDN'T FIND ANYTHING WRONG WITH THEM! I THOUGHT THEY COULD MAKE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A MISSILE AND A VIOLON! IT'S NOT COMPLICATED!"

The more he thought about it, the more Petyr was convinced a travel to the Longbow Hall System with his wife and his two children was a good idea in the short-term future. He loved a bit of agitation to bolster his influence and power, but the capital was really becoming too volatile to his taste.

"DO YOUR JOBS IMBECILES! DO YOU NEED THE KING TO DELIVER YOU ANOTHER STUPID PROPHECY? YOUR UNPOPULARITY IN THE POLLS IS LEGENDARY AND I THINK I CAN FIND OSTRICHES DOING A BETTER JOB THAN YOU!"

And on these words the irate Master of Whisperers stormed out of the Small Council, smashing two more vases and one statue in the corridor before his footsteps faded away.

"What is an ostrich?" asked the Lord of Harrenhal.

* * *

 **Prince Viserys Targaryen, 18.08.300AAC, Dragonstone System**

When one watched from orbit, Dragonstone looked like the antechamber of the Seven Hells. Fire and Blood, Aegon the Conqueror had chosen these words for his new House before unleashing his dragons on Westeros.

Three hundred years later, the dragons were all dead but the planet was still bathed in fire. There was not one week where a volcano didn't erupt. The surface was only red and black, flames and ashes, magma and black obsidian.

Dragonstone was an ideal nesting ground and resting place for dragons. For humans of flesh and blood, it was a hellish landscape where death awaited you at every step.

But it was this constant volcanic activity which made Dragonstone so valuable. There were rare minerals which could be easily exploited there and the foundries could work night and day without a care for environmental norms.

Dragonstone was the arsenal of House Targaryen, both on the ground and in orbit. Everywhere you watched there were only weapons, warships or production lines destined to build more weapons. The system was the official base of the Crown Deep Space Fleet and also welcomed massive planetary armies.

It was a system of paramount importance, unlike Summerhall who was a pleasure and holiday amusement park. But it was shamefully ignored by his nephew and as a result he was the Lord of the place in all but name.

It was ignoring the duties they owed to their ancestors.

It was a sign how far they had fallen.

"So my Royal Brother continues to ignore the problems while he tries to decipher thousand years-old prophecies." The Royal Admiral sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"

It was the old Lord Celtigar who decided to voice his opinion first.

"My Prince...I know you were reluctant to think about it, but I fear the removal of the current administration is the only option left to us if we want to save the realm."

Lord Ardrian was not smiling, but he did not look displeased either. It was difficult to reprimand him. The sour Vice-Admiral had fought loyally in three wars for House Targaryen, and his rewards had been destroyed warships, a loss of influence in the highest spheres of the Crown Sector and he had to remove his Heiress from court before one of his 'beloved nephews' took her maidenhood.

"I know why you think this is now or never but don't forget Crown Prince Aegon must have reached the Highgarden by now. If we move against my brother and remove him from the throne, war will be a certainty. If we are lucky, I will be able to take hostage my brother, his Queen and her two youngest children. We won't be able to capture Joffrey, Aegon will be out of our reach and the kingdom will burn."

"But with all due respect my Prince, wouldn't the Tyrells fight in the scenario where Prince Aegon is in our custody?" demanded Lord Baelor Staunton. The Lord of Rook's Rest had come to this meeting in a green suit, neatly different from his golden uniform of a Crown General. "The Rose has invested too much in the marriage of Margaery Tyrell and the Crown Prince. On the other side, you are already married and your daughter is too young for a marriage proposal."

"You are saying they will fight whether they have a claimant or not," it was something he had tried to not to think a lot about, especially when the opportunity had been there to secure the entire Royal Family but now...his fist tightened and his mood darkened.

They had been so close. A few more months, and he would have two-thirds of the Crown Sector with him when the time came to declare his brother insane, remove his crown from his mad forehead and begin solving the considerable problems of the Seven Sectors before they plunged in the abyss.

It was now impossible. Two Princes and one Princess had been sent away, and while he didn't worry too much about Visenya this meant Joffrey and Aegon would rush to Casterly Rock and Highgarden the moment they heard something was wrong. Their claimants secure in their ancestral strongholds, Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell would fight this conflict until their triumph or their utter defeat.

It was not something he wanted.

A war against two or three rebel factions but where the claimants were under his control would end in a few months if the first campaign was a defeat for them. It was difficult selling war to your Lords if you had no one to crown.

A civil war against multiple opponents who had each crowned their chosen silver-haired boys and had no easy way out, on the other hand... It would destroy Westeros. Viserys had seen the Fall of Pyke. The Prince of Summerhall had really no wish to let the rest of the Seven Sectors receive this treatment.

"I do," affirmed Baelor Staunton.

"I don't disagree with you Lord Staunton," it was the turn of his third invitee to speak, Master Guncer Sunglass, of the Masterly House of Sunglass in the Driftmark System and Rear-Admiral in the Crown Navy. "But we have to remember that if the Reach Navy is arrayed against us, we might very well suffer a terrible defeat. I have no a lot of confidence in our new generation of warships. While House Baratheon may have promised their support, they will have their hands full dealing with Connington. In the River Sector, our friends are going to be very busy between the Lannisters, the Darrys, the Brackens and maybe the Valemen. Aegon took a large task force with him when he departed to the Reach and the Tyrells have two hundred ships of the line in service."

Seen like this, their chances were flimsy. The best way to win would have been to divide the Reach and the West, make a lot of promises for their bannersmen to betray their Lords Paramount the moment the first shot was fired.

"But waiting will make it worse," Lord Ardrian Celtigar said with a large huff. "You are terrified by the two hundred ships of the line the Fat Rose has; me I'm having white nights at the idea of this arrogant idiot mustering four of five hundred battleships with a thousand battlecruisers!"

"If we want to remove the King," added Lord Staunton, "it has to be before year's end. Once the new Reach fleet will be completed, the fiercest of our Crown Lords will refuse to rise up when they won't be able to face the enemy with any chance of success."

And this was it, when it came down to it.

He had to act now or cancel his plans. Remove his brother and pray it wasn't too late or wait powerlessly while the kingdom failed to be a kingdom before the crown was handed to someone even less deserving of it. Rhaegar was insane and obsessed with prophecies yes, but he wasn't actively malicious, just convinced he was right and let his incompetent friends bicker while the fortress burned. Viserys was not convinced the same could be said about the Crown Prince.

No, no he couldn't watch and let his brother ruin everything. It was probably too late, the chances of defeating his enemies were slim, but he was not going to calmly wait at Dragonstone while the King who had sent his little sister away like a plague-touched patient created dozens of new disasters per year by inaction.

"We are readying our forces," he announced and unconsciously, the Master and the Two Lords slightly relaxed. "We will have to accelerate the war games and the training course of the last recruits, but I believe we can be ready for the fourth of Velkrys." Standard time, this meant 04.10.300AAC. "Lord Ardrian, be ready to dismantle the dispersed shipyards and the small mining companies in the outer system. A raid while we're away is unlikely, but I prefer to not take undue risks on this front."

The Dragonstone System static defences were formidable, but he simply could not afford to lose the arsenal at this point of the plan. The loss in influence and power would be disastrous.

"We will soon travel to the save the realm!" Viserys raised his cup for a toast. "Victory and fire!"

"Victory and fire!" replied his three supporters.

* * *

 **Lord Edmure Tully, 19.08.300AAC, Riverrun System**

Family. Duty. Honour.

Edmure watched the large pile of correspondence which had just arrived on his desk this morning. The messages were in every possible shape, modern or archaic, invented by humanity in the last thousand years.

Funny fact, he didn't need to open a single one to know what they were containing.

Yes, yes, there were all marriage proposals.

It was getting worse year after year.

As usual, he removed the missives of the Western Lords first. The lions could voice all the protestations they wanted, he saw perfectly through their little games. The moment he married a Lannister or one of their vassals, his moves, his ideas and his plans would be leaked to Casterly Rock. A lot of the images sent were showing attractive women, but for all he loved sleeping with blond whores, he was not going to say yes to one who wouldn't hesitate poisoning him if Lord Tywin Lannister made it an order.

The lone letter of White Harbor was thrown in the box destined for the incinerator. Edmure was not interested in consorting with traitors and rebels. His father had been idiotic enough to play their games, and look what had happened to him. House Tully had lost the title of Lord Paramount, and its forces had been broken both on space and land. They had lost their reputation of integrity and loyalty, all for nothing. House Targaryen reigned, and their word had the strength of the law. Why would he care if the King decided to get rid of a few Northern barbarians?

The Vale was next, but the four propositions were not of Houses noted for their loyalty. Moreover, two of them weren't from proper Noble Houses and it was out of question he married below his rank. Riverrun was a prestigious Lordship and he wasn't going to sabotage the influence he had so painfully gathered under the banner of the trout.

There were three messages from the Storm Sector. Two were from Knightly Houses and thus unsuitable. The other one was from House Kellington, and in theory satisfying the lineage conditions...except he wasn't going to bed the ugly creature on the holo-recording for all the treasury of Casterly Rock, thank you very much.

"Why I am attracting all the ugly ones?" He moaned to himself.

The Reach was also unsatisfying. He was ready to do his duty, but for reasons which escaped him, all the proposals were all from Masterly Houses or below. He had even written to some of his contacts at Highgarden to request explanations but the answers were making themselves wait.

There was nothing from Dorne. There never was but since he didn't want to invite a scorpion or a viper in his bed, he would survive the disappointment.

The Crown Houses had the status, but rapid reading informed him of the same problem: they all wanted money and favours. By the Father and the Mother Above, when a marriage happened it was the wife who arrived with a dowry, not the husband! And yes, he was friend with Prince Viserys but he wasn't just about to loan someone a couple of billion dragons just because there some passing acquaintances!

After one good hour of work, this meant 'only' the River Sector proposals were left.

There was just a small problem. Those were a natural mountain by themselves.

Edmure had to repeat seven times his House's words in his head before beginning the long and inglorious task of rejecting them letter after letter.

He didn't care about the naivety voiced by the parents; he wasn't going to wed someone who had sold her maidenhood to one Prince or a Prince's friend.

Lord Bracken could keep his second or third daughter. Edmure was not going to tie his House with someone who was at the beck and call of Prince Joffrey and the Masters of the West.

Ah, if only the Vances or the Pipers or any of his allies had daughters of the correct age and a bit pretty...

But they had not and in the end the same problems were met in appalling quantities. The girls were uglier than sin, several levels below the whores he was regularly demanding for his bed. Half were of lesser status and it was unacceptable for a Tully of Riverrun to wed someone below his rank. A third of them were so impoverished marrying them would bring him nothing but the name. And the rest had treacherous siblings or parents who would make his loyalties suspect to his neighbours.

"Beauty. Lineage. Loyalty. Wealth. Surely it's not too much to ask?"

* * *

 **Lord Jon Arryn, 20.08.300AAC, the Eyrie System**

Jon had felt old in the last weeks. Now he was feeling a decade older. The fact he had known about this for more than a few weeks did not made him feel better.

"He's gone."

"Yes, my Lord," replied Lord Yohn Royce. For once, the powerful voice of the Lord of Runestone was subdued and apologetic. "Your son and your wife are on their way to Gulltown as we speak. They're going to join the loyalist gathering organised by Lord Grafton there..."

Jon flexed the muscles of his arms, trying to maintain an image of calm. It was getting more difficult day after day.

"I suppose you have discovered with your usual efficiency the list of these pesky bannersmen answering Gerold Grafton's invitations?"

Runestone was one jump away from the system governed by House Grafton, and the Royces had long maintained their watch after the failed Rebellion.

"By a strange coincidence, I have." The Bronzed Warrior cleared his throat. "The first part will be to no surprise to you, my Lord. Everything Gulltown and the nearby systems have of scum, vermin and traitors have been mustered. House Grafton is there to lead them, with your distant cousins the Arryns of Gulltown opening their coffers. Houses Hersy, Upcliff, Waxley, Shett of Gulltown were always expected to rally to them. House Lynderly has not yet translated by the Vale, but my sources affirm it is only a question of time. The bad news is Houses Waynwood and Hardyng intend to join them before the month is over."

This was not pleasant to hear. Once upon a time when landing at Gulltown, he had been welcomed by most of those names bending the knee in front of him and swearing him eternal loyalty. They had mistakenly believed Aerys II's words were more powerful than his own, they said.

There had been a greater war waiting for them and thus he had pardoned them, needing all the armies and the fleets he could take with him. Certain like House Corbray had been a good choice for they had remained loyal.

These Houses were a minority, alas.

"I was too merciful," he admitted, "and apparently treason is not an illness which can be healed by time and good governance."

The Lord Paramount of the Vale seized his sword from his scabbard and struck the ancestral table with his strength, pulverising the work which had stood for decades in this room.

"I think it is time for them to learn why I am their Lord Paramount. House Arryn did not remain strong for so long by prattling long debates on honour and mercy. I am Lord of the Vale because I am a descendant of the Falcon Knight and we took our crown in blood and massacre. It's time for the Graftons and their accomplices to remember this fact."

Yohn Royce struck his fist above his heart in salute.

"Do we move against Gulltown immediately?"

"I would love to but unfortunately there are some bannersmen closer to the Eyrie which must be crushed first." Tempting as it was, he could not rush towards what was certainly a trap for him and his forces. "We will begin by teaching the Hardyng Hill, Snakewood and Wickenden Systems why they should never have broken their oaths. Since they have been kind enough to send their best forces to Gulltown, it would be rude not to take advantage of it."

"It will also give us leverage over them," there was a look of distaste when the Lord of Runestone spoke. "I don't like taking hostages but..."

"No," Lord Jon Arryn affirmed with a determination he had not felt in a lifetime. "Hostages are only useful if you want to spare a House. This time there will be no forgiveness, no pardon and no mercy."

"This is going to make the war we fought in Robert's name a minor skirmish," Yohn whispered. He understood like Jon this was going to be a conflict unlike any other they had fought in their long lives.

"It is going to be a bloodbath," agreed the Master of the Eyrie. "But when Houses fail to uphold their own words, we have to correct their mistakes."

"Yes, Father," approved a familiar voice and his daughter Alysanne entered the room. For today she had chosen to wear a long light blue dress and keep her long blonde hairs untamed. "It's time to teach our 'Sweet Robin'," the nickname was uttered in a derisive fashion, "he's not the greatest gift of the Seven in this galaxy..."

* * *

 **Ser Preston Greenfield, 25.08.300AAC, Maidenpool System**

Preston hadn't liked Braavos. He didn't like sea cities and he hadn't liked the Braavosi.

The worst part of this travel was how a monumental waste of time it had been. Their 'mission' had been doomed from the start. Princess Daenerys Targaryen couldn't return. Princess Daenerys Targaryen didn't want to return. And to know they had just avoided a full-scale war with Braavos by failing their orders...there were days since he had said the vows of the Kingsguard he wondered why he woke up at all.

There had been some part of his mind who had prayed for Prince Joffrey to go back to King's Landing in a hurry and announce the bad news to the King.

The far more realistic voice of his heart had acknowledged this wasn't going to happen.

Prince Joffrey Targaryen had been in a sulking mood for five days before he ordered a change of course in the Narrow Void.

Preston didn't like it, but he had to admit the last 'conversation' between Father and Son had been a total fiasco. The obsession of their sovereign for prophecies was out of control and the face he had showed when his children or his councillors tried to reason him was one all inhabitants of the Red Keep tried to avoid.

He understood why his charge loved the thought of avoiding the capital for a few more months. But being an adult and a Knight sworn to the Royal Family, he knew these efforts to delay the problem were not going to help things.

It was these thoughts who pushed him to try one more time to change the mind of Prince Joffrey.

"Your Highness, I don't think this is a good idea." He tentatively started as they marched in the corridors towards the quarters assigned to the aboard the fast liner _Crimson Arrow_ , bound for the Western Sector.

"You made your opinion clear twice, Ser Preston," replied testily the son of Queen Cersei. "But I stand by my decision. I will not present myself in front of the entire court before my grandfather is informed of all the stupid decisions my genitor has made these last months."

Preston could see the logic and somewhat agree with it. The part of his soul who remembered his allegiance as a Westerner did, anyway. The Kingsguard in him feared the Lord Paramount of the West was going to explode when his grandson explained him how bad the situation was.

The Lord of Casterly Rock had spies in the snake pit known as King's Landing and the Small Council; a lot of the information wouldn't enrage him. Maybe the perception Lord Tywin had of some events would be changed.

But in the last public sessions and the commands to reunite the Royal family, it had been impossible to disguise the madness of the Head of House Targaryen. The political situation was sure to become more unstable...and he was afraid the silver-haired crowned head he had sworn his sword to was going to make an ultimatum which would destroy the peace of the last two decades.

"I fear the Reachers at court will not see it that way."

"These useless advisors will never compliment me anyway," said the Prince with a one of his worst frowns. "I could have gone back from Braavos with my aunt and on the back of a real purple dragon, and I'm sure they would have whispered in the King's ears that according to a two thousand-years old prophecy it is a sign of betrayal because the dragon had to be yellow."

It said very bad things about the court Preston had not the courage to say this was bad humour.

"At least let me send a couple of guards to the capital, your Highness. Your brother and your sister must be protected from your...unique interpretation of your orders."

The Prince of Crackclaw to his relief nodded thoughtfully when he heard his suggestion.

"A good suggestion, yes," the green-eyed teenager said with a small smile. "Please send the Hound deliver a warning to all the Western forces in the capital too. They will need to prepare their evacuations plans if something bad happens."

"It will be done." He let a few seconds before returning to the topic which had haunted a lot of his nights. "Maybe the Seven Sectors can avoid an armed rebellion of the Lords of the realm..."

"In this case, maybe the King should not have sent emissaries to Dorne and the North at the same time." There was no shout, but Lord Tywin's grandson spat the words more than he uttered them. "And now that I have failed to bring back the precious sister he sold to the Braavosi, the madman is going to deprive me of my rights."

Preston refused to open his mouth. What could he say to the Prince?

"I know he hates me. I know he considers me an object to keep the Western Sector happy while he sells the titles and the treasury to Lord Rose-Puff-Fish."

The Targaryen Prince gritted his teeth.

"I am sick of it. Set course to Casterly Rock, it is time for me to learn how to rule."

* * *

 **Lord Jacaerys Velaryon, 25.08.300AAC, Highgarden System**

This was the greatest fleet review he had ever seen with his own eyes.

For the first time in a decade, the might of the Crown Fleet and the Reach Fleet were manoeuvring together in the same system.

When the Lannisters and their allies saw the recordings their spies were collecting at this very moment, they were about to have a lot of brown pants.

First and unequalled, the super-battleships led the formation. Aegon had come with the old _Conqueror_ and the new _Meraxes_ and _Balerion_. For this parade, the Tyrells had brought their decades-old _Master of the Reach_ and the newly-commissioned _Royal Rose_.

Five super-battleships gathered in the same place, while the disloyal Sectors usually boasted they had one in mothball.

The ships of the line, the main units of the battle-wall, were following them. Fourteen of these magnificent hulls had come with them from the capital, all brand-new warships of the King's Might, Holy Rule and Divine Might classes. Fourteen was a respectable number, but they were completely overshadowed by the one hundred and five ships of the line Mace Tyrell had mobilised for their welcome.

Trust the Warden of the South to transform the deployment of a Crown fleet so far from its bases in an insignificant event. Jacaerys had juggled a lot under Aegon's authority to deploy three super-battleships, fourteen ships of the line, twenty-eight battlecruisers, twenty-eight heavy cruisers, forty-two light cruisers and forty-nine cruisers, supported by two thousand and eight hundred starfighters in their carriers.

Against the mass of the Reach fleet, his efforts were not weighting a lot.

The 'Grand Reach Fleet' was a monster in all the senses of the term. Jacaerys had seen the numbers, yes. But it was something to see the data and something else to verify the truth directly in front of him.

Two super-battleships. One hundred and five ships of the line. Two hundred and ten battlecruisers. Three hundred and fifteen heavy cruisers. Two hundred and ten light cruisers. Seven hundred and thirty scout cruisers. Seven fleet carriers. Seventy light carriers. Two hundred and ten escort carriers. Over eight thousand starfighters, not counting the tens of thousands a system like Highgarden could use for self-defence.

Alone, this fleet was larger than the Western Fleet and the Northern fleet combined. And it was far from the totality of the hulls the Reach could muster for war. Never had the efforts of the last years felt more justified in this moment. With this armada, they were really going to crush all opposition.

"That is a hammer they will never be able to parry!" exclaimed joyously his cousin.

"In fact, it might give a few headaches," he said in a conspiring tone. "How will we catch them if they flee to the end of the universe screaming in terror?"

Laughter and cheers acclaimed his words.

* * *

 **Ayric Sarring, 26.08.300AAC, Somewhere in the Narrow Void**

All in all, their stay in the Volantis System was rather uneventful for veterans of the Doom.

Why, they had not even lost a single man. Raff Preslan had added a few scars because he had been dead drunk in a few skirmishes but he was already bragging he had received them challenging a tiger –the animal, not the Triarch – in a fist fight.

To the future generations and an eventual tribunal, Ayric was ready to swear on the head of the Seven whatever had happened in this Essossi system was not their fault.

And no, he was not lying.

How was he, Lord Gerion and the survivors of the Laughing Lion had been supposed to know the demons had worshippers firmly established in the mega-cities of Volantis? They were not prophets, by the Crone!

Ayric was going to give it to the demons, it took some serious talent for deception to create a religion promoting the fight against the darkness. The cult must have expanded in the last decades as the influence of the Doom increased.

By the time they had returned from their little exploration, the demon-worshippers had been a really popular religion with thousands of slaves praying day after day for the Lord of Light.

What effect it will have in the real galaxy, Ayric didn't know but he guessed this wasn't going to be good and the rest of the 104th agreed with him.

The enemy had a name and it was R'hllor.

In turn, this posed an interesting problem. How do you kill a demon-god?

Their leaders and the core of their worshippers had died easily once the Volantene authorities had stormed their Red Temple. Volantis may be full of arrogant slavers, but they didn't like when the sorcerers unleashed their shadow-assassins in the space stations and the streets.

For the short-term, the monster had suffered a reverse at Volantis. There would be no demonic incursion, not with the Red Priests decapitated and thrown into mass graves.

"Still thinking about Volantis?" Ayric turned to watch a smirking Gerion Lannister, a bottle of liquor in his hands. Despite himself, his lips opened to smile. The Lannister had this positive effect on everyone aboard the transport carrying them across the Narrow Void. You began a conversation with him and at some point in the debate, you were ready to swear friendship and bring him to the closest party.

"A lot," he answered truthfully. "I also wonder how much will have changed in a decade."

Gerion scoffed.

"Oh there's no need to wonder. My brother will be grumpier, the Targaryens will be crazier and the beer's price will have been multiplied by seven, because inflation is the gift of the Heavens."

The two men of the 104th who were guarding their funny Lannister overlord today burst into laughter and Ayric raised his eyes in consternation.

"I really hope for your sake there's no band of fanatic Seven-worshippers running amok in the streets of King's Landing. They would consider you a living blasphemy."

"Thank you Colonel, I'm flattered by your compliment."

Ayric shook his head in mock regret. Gerion was in the image of most of this universe: he didn't make a lot of sense. Lannisters were supposed to be callous, bitter, prompt to scowl, frequently screamed orders which made no sense and sent everyone who was not a flag officer in situations you were near-certain to die. They were not supposed to fight with you and make you like them in the process!

"According to the captain, we are five or six days away from King's Landing," Ayric managed to articulate after four more moments of hilarity.

"It will be good to see the towers of this polluted hellhole again," declared Gerion. "And miracle of miracle, we know a powerful sorceress is somewhere nearby."

"Bah, our Demonslayer is going to deal with this 'Melisandre' in one minute..."

* * *

 **Queen Rhaenyra Blackfyre, 26.08.300AAC, Tyrosh System**

"It's time, Arch-Dominarch."

The respectful tone of Salladhor Saan was carrying some hints of amusement. Of course, he was safely away from retaliation on the flag bridge of his ship, some five thousand kilometres away.

Sighing like a mummer on scene, Rhaenyra gave her porcelain cup to her butler before returning her attention to her subordinate Admirals and squadron commanders.

"It appears you are right, Admiral Saan," since he had called her Arch-Dominarch, she would not address him by his grandiloquent title of 'Prince of the Narrow Void'.

Rhaenyra stood from her seat without hurrying and watched the hundreds of light surrounding the _Black Dragon_.

It was exalting. It had taken years of battles, waiting, hard deals, training and negotiation for this moment.

But she was ready.

"We are in sufficient strength to execute Operation Waterfall," she announced to her assembly on the screens. The predatory smiles she received did not disappoint her.

"You have not yet explained to us the stellar system which will be our first target, your Grace," interjected politely Captain-General Strickland.

"No, I didn't," for once she could have fun, playing with their impatience. "But I think it's time for you to be informed of the first phase."

A nod to the lieutenants waiting nearby and the bridge's great stellar map of the Westerosi systems flashed into existence.

"I have long thought and hard about our first target, to be honest. It was a long and difficult choice. Contrary to what an inexperienced strategist must assume, there are not many easy systems allowing an easy invasion and allowing our forces to increase their strength. The Princedom of Dorne is too far away and I don't want our strength to bleed in thousands of skirmishes. Weeping Star would be a nice juicy first victory, but they are too far from the most populated and industrialised powerhouses. Tudbury, Parchments, Kellington and Hasty are poor. It would cost us a lot of resources to make them defensible or useful logistically. It goes without saying it would also anger the Baratheons and the other Storm Lords at a moment where we really need them to fight the Targaryens."

The display flashed to the Crown Sector.

"The moment they hear of our return, the false dragons will be convinced we will strike at them directly. Their home Sector has a lot of interesting targets: Dragonstone, Duskendale, Driftmark and of course King's Landing."

A few of the squadron commanders were ready to approve...they didn't understand her then.

"Except Duskendale, all these systems are too dangerous to attack at this point. Driftmark and Dragonstone are highly militarised systems and we could take crippling losses at the start of our campaign. Attacking the capital is a do-or-die operation and would leave us governing the biggest economic disaster of the known galaxy. Duskendale would be more acceptable, but the Deep Space Fleet of Dragonstone would have an easy time to massacre our logistic chain."

"But...there are no other targets of note!"

Rhaenyra didn't even glance at the screens to discover where the outburst had come. She placed her hands behind her back, letting her Admirals have a good look at her black-silver uniform.

"Wrong." And the image changed again to concentrate on the Vale Sector. "There is an important logistic base we are close enough to seize and with it we can raid the systems close to the Narrow Void at will. It will be an incitement for the Republic of Braavos not to enter this war and the proof we are not contestants they can take lightly. At the same time, King's Landing gaze will not be fixed on us."

"But there will be resistance," Saan made it an affirmation and she nodded in return.

"According to my sources, a Vale Loyalist Fleet is beginning its muster there as we speak. They are uncoordinated and lack clear leadership. Their attention is fixed on the Eyrie as they challenge the will of their liege Lord."

Rhaenyra pointed a finger at the star in question.

"This fleet is going to remind them why the black dragon must be feared."

The loud voices of agreement came immediately.

"We set course for Gulltown."

* * *

 **King Victarion Greyjoy, 27.08.300AAC, Somewhere in the Summer Void**

Victarion had seen many strange things in his life. There were hundreds of freakish events which could be observed by leading the life of a pirate captain in the void separating the Essos Quadrant from Sothoryos. Four or five thousand years of space exploration in the unknown was not long enough for Ironborn and non-Ironborn to discover all the secrets of this space zone greater than Westeros.

Every year, there was an adventurer, a corsair or a pirate who brought back from a newly discovered planet a strange artefact, a curious work of art or a new flower species. Sometimes they even came back with a new plague and quarantine measures were activated before the 'heroes' killed tens of thousands spacemen by their simple presence.

However, Victarion had to admit he had never seen an object like the one which was presented to him today.

It was a ring.

The metal used it to forge it was platinum, if he had to guess. That and the elegant inscriptions engraved on it would make its price rise to an impressive sum. What set it apart truly from the thousands of baubles were the flames burning irregularly on the ring.

There was no reason at all for the flames to be present. The ring had been touched by dozens reavers, and they all confirmed the ring was extremely cold, not warm.

The scanners and their diverse devices they had onboard being unable to tell the origins and the age of the object, Victarion was forced to admit it reeked of magic.

"And you said you found it in the private vault of a Myrish captain?" He asked to the reaver who had come back with this intriguing object.

"Yes, my King."

"Any idea how they found it?"

The expression on the Ironborn's visage was a bit frustrated.

"The ones who survived our assault told us they had found it in a crippled in tree in orbit around a dead planet." The man shrugged. "They're not good at lying, but the captain and the party who went to explore are all dead."

"A pity," replied Victarion, emptying one of the wine bottles said Myrish ship had transported to sell on the Essossi markets. He feigned disinterest, but inside he wanted to touch the ring. The blue flames were of a beautiful shade...

"I don't know if it will be more than a shiny trinket, but I give you four thousand dragons for it."

The ring was probably worth a thousand times more, but he was not going to say it to his interlocutor. It would be his birthday soon, and he was entitled a nice present, no?

"Thank you, my King."

The captain and the thralls departed. He waited two minutes before moving the small box containing the ring. Now that he could examine it away from prying eyes, the object looked more beautiful if it was possible. The creator of this ring had been a master. The inscriptions, the symbols, the colours and the blue flames; every aspect was eye-catching and pleasant to the gaze.

It was...

"...a ring worthy of a King."

And Victarion Greyjoy, legitimate King of the Iron Sector, put the ring on the index finger of his right hand.

* * *

 **Melisandre of Asshai, 28.08.300AAC, King's Landing System**

Melisandre had been happy five minutes ago.

This was five minutes before learning Jon Connington had disregarded her orders...again.

As he was in presence of fellow R'hllor worshippers, she saw no harm in giving her true opinion. The benevolent expression she maintained in front of the hundreds of false prophets, thieves, crooks, poor hedge sorcerers surrounding the King ceased to be.

"If Lord Connington survives this year, it will be my pleasure to rip his soul from his body and consign it to an eternity of torment."

Various signs of agreement came from her three High Priestesses she had summoned in secret on Rhaenys' moon in the shadow of the Dragonpit.

"His refusal to obey your commands is unacceptable, Red Voice," said her first High Priestess. "We can't reasonably run to the King every day to receive a Royal Seal because the man doubts our actions."

"Do not call Jon Connington a man," corrected her second High Priestess, known by non-believers as Willow Rollingford. "It is giving this unbeliever too much intelligence. Connington is a dog, and every soul in this galaxy save his precious King Rhaegar is necessarily someone beneath him in the quest of his master's love."

"I foresaw many complications in the flames, but I had underestimated how his arrogance and his lack of intelligence could hurt our plans," Melisandre admitted. "Are you sure of your spies, my Flame of Dusk?"

"Yes, Red Voice," answered the blonde-haired and blue-eyed woman. Her High Priestess was of poor cadet branch of a Crown Masterly House, but House Rollingford had had many connections available for her use after the Greyjoy Rebellion. The Lord of the Light's loyal men and women had increased their numbers faster than she had believed possible once Willow had seen the truth. "Jon Connington has just decided the Fawnton System was going to welcome the next war games of the Crown Sector. It is an impressive muster and there's no way he will cancel it or do it elsewhere. There are eight ships of the line, twelve battlecruisers and nearly two hundred million men mobilised for this series of useless parades."

"How thoughtful of him," the voice of her Flame of Dawn, Lady Gwenys Cressey, was not hiding how low her opinion of the Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector was. "He has gathered his best troops and his allies in a single location. Stannis Baratheon is going to love this."

Nods and grimaces came after this declaration. The hate between the Lord of Griffin's Roost and the Lord of Storm's End was so powerful she had no doubt the maesters and every talented author would write books on it. Both men were still alive, but it was becoming already something of a legend in Westeros. It was not a question of 'if' the cadet brother of the Usurper was going to rebel; it was question of 'when' and Melisandre had seen enough in the flames to know this moment was dangerously close.

"He will need to strike with many armies and squadrons if he wants to defeat the Connington forces," the Flame of Dusk affirmed. "The Griffin is not a brilliant general, but he will have a lot of tanks, artillery and air support plus every type of warship in orbit. The Council has sent two Behemoths from the capital to watch his actions too."

Not a single woman in this room was displeased at the idea of Jon Connington being viewed in a bad light by the Small Council. Highborn, merchant or smallfolk, few men, women and children were ready to open their voices in public and tell they liked this insufferable aristocrat. His subjects of Griffin's Roost appreciated him, for they had been elevated over the Baratheons, but they were an anomaly. The rest of the Sector seethed in discontent and the association with the Crown had been a severe blow to promote the worship of R'hllor in this Sector.

"I fear it will be impossible to evacuate the camp and the installations we built at Fawnton," declared her first High Priestess. The Flame of the Pyre had been blessed with the same red shade as Melisandre for her hair after the Great Trial, and was thus the second most powerful Priestess of the Lord's worship. She was also harsh in her judgements. "The starships will be all under heavy surveillance during the war games and I don't think we can convince thousands of men to ignore us for several hours."

"But we can't allow Baratheon or Connington troops to discover the extent of our plans and the knowledge in our possession," the black hairs of her Flame of Dawn had a bit more red in them. The prayers and the manipulation of flames had opened her further to the truth and in a few days Melisandre judged she would be ready for her Great Trial.

"And we won't," she stood before kissing one by one her High Priestesses. "I see an excellent opportunity to use Fawnton as a trap which will convince the planets of the Storm Sector to recognise the will of R'hllor."

Her eyes returned to her Flame of the Pyre. With one gesture, the Red Voice of R'hllor removed the cloak the other woman wore, revealing her naked body. Melisandre smiled; the blessings of the Lord of Light had removed all the scars and imperfections. Her High Priestess was now red-haired and red-eyed, remodelled by the flames and the power of life into a being which shared none of the weaknesses of mortals.

They were not identical of course: R'hllor did not want His Priestesses to be identical and impossible to distinguish. Stillness was the mark of the Great Other, not the God of Flames, Light and Life.

"You will need to take another appearance to go to Fawnton, my Flame of the Pyre," the Red Priestess born long ago at Asshai-by-the-Shadow told her favourite.

The young woman nodded and in the blink of an eye the red hairs were replaced by black and the eyes took new shades of blue. Melisandre nodded in approval.

"Was it your appearance before the Great Trial?" asked curiously the Flame of Dusk.

"Yes and no," flames danced on the fingertips of the High Priestess. "But I think it's time for these unbelievers to pay for their sins. I was Tysha Lannister and I never forgot."

* * *

 **Arya Stark, 29.08.300AAC, Winterfell System**

Arya liked her new cousin. She was nice, she liked starfighters and dressing like a fighter and Nymeria liked her.

"You will teach me how to pilot starfighters. Please, please, please!"

Her direwolf yapped to support her words.

"You will to be a bit taller, cousin." Baela's twin sister replied while she ruffled her black hairs. "First you have to learn a ton of manuals and train in a starfighter simulator. Most of them are built for adults. I don't think you would reach the pedals and half of the buttons."

"That's not true!" She exclaimed. She was tall for her age. She ate a lot of soup!

"Four out of ten people haven't the physical abilities to use a standard starfighter," said Visenya, passing her arm on her shoulders. "There is no shame in this."

"But I want to pilot!"

"You will...in a couple of years." Their grey eyes stared at each other until Arya looked away. "Piloting one of these machines sounds exciting and it is, but it's also dangerous, Arya. In the Crown Sector, we have several pilots dying per year."

Arya shifted her attention to Baela and Robb, but they both nodded reluctantly.

"I think we have fewer accidents in training and normal operations," told her big brother, "but the grades and the reflexes you need to qualify as a Northern pilot are higher."

"Because your starfighter wings are smaller and there are less of them," Arya didn't know if their new cousin made it a question or not.

"There is that," agreed Robb, "but we of the North prefer in many things quality over quantity."

This was something Arya found logical. Between one hundred experienced girls in a fistfight and a thousand babies crying in five seconds, she chose the experienced girls. Visenya bit her lip, though.

"Like your ice dragon."

"Like my ice dragon, yes," Baela said, throwing a ball in the air that Icefyre caught two seconds later before landing swiftly near the tail of Grey Wind. Robb's direwolf growled to discourage him from another session of tail-provocations.

Visenya had been very funny when the dragon had been revealed an hour ago. Arya had now a lot of photos to use as blackmail.

Arya wanted to continue the starfighter conversation but Father stood from the nearby couch, and moved to avoid the two unmoving adult direwolves. Icefyre was now bigger than Grey Wind, but he was still smaller than Dragon's Doom and Mama Wolf. But ice dragons grew fast and no one had any idea how long it would be before Baela companion became bigger than the super-heavy tanks in Winterfell armies.

"Arya you have lessons to go back to." His voice was gentle but she knew it was not a suggestion. "Your cousins and I have many things to discuss."

Something told her it was not her training to become a starfighter pilot.

"Yes, my Lord," she said in a modified Northern military salute, making Baela and Robb laugh. "I am going to search a new pup for Visenya. Her father the King is a horrible guy and didn't give her a dragon. So she needs a big grey-furred direwolf."

Dragon's Doom howled loudly in approval at her signal. The promise of two steaks for dinner made the male direwolf the best accomplice.

"See? He agrees with me."

"You promised him more meat, didn't you?" Robb interrupted in an aggrieved expression.

"Traitor!"

* * *

 **Ser** **Jaime Lannister, 29.08.300AAC, Dry Lake System**

The system had once been called the Mirror of the Lakes. The Dornish had preserved holo-images of this period and he had been able to watch them.

Three hundred and twenty years ago, this planet had been a verdant paradise. The two large continents had enjoyed a pleasant climate and the existing lakes and rivers where the local population enjoyed living were numbering in the thousands. All the Dornish ethnicities had been represented.

During this era, Mirror of the Lakes had been a rising power in the Princedom of Dorne. It had a lot of growth to do before challenging seriously Sunspear, but it was in time a location which would take its place in the power-makers of the region.

House Green Lake had been made a Noble House and one of their Heirs had recently been an influent councillor of the Princess of Dorne.

There was no sign of this glorious past now. There was sand and the carcasses of rusted ships half-buried by the dunes.

When Dornish armies had mustered here to stop Aegon the Conqueror, the dragons had incinerated them, broke the orbital stations and thrown like mere rocks the warships dying valiantly to protect this world.

They had failed and never again would the Dornish fleets and armies challenge Balerion the Black Dread openly on a battlefield. Vows to never forget were made.

House Green Lake had died to the last in the inferno which had ravaged their world.

A bastard of the last Lord swore vengeance and took the name Lake but died in the campaign of vengeance the King of Westeros led after the death of Rhaenys Targaryen and Meraxes. Mirror of the Lakes was renamed Dry Lake.

After peace returned, House Dryland was given the planet but the prosperity and the wealth were gone, pillaged by the Westerosi marauding armies or disintegrated by the dragon's death.

As far as House longevity was concerned, the Dryland family had never had the time to expand and make itself a name. Just as investments and laborious efforts were producing effects in restoring some greenness to the desert landscape, the Young Dragon invaded.

The inhabitants of Dry Lake had not forgotten the dragon and the moment a large Crown fleet arrived in orbit, they abandoned their cities and prepared for a merciless battle. Daeron I was forced to unleash his Behemoths and nearly five army groups on the world. And if three weeks later victory was declared, House Targaryen lost the system five times and was forced to engage more and more forces before the Young Dragon's death.

Not a single man, woman and child of House Dryland lived to see the end of hostilities. Efforts to make the planet a shadow of its former glory were abandoned and no Noble House had ruled here after these bloody years.

There were many lessons to this and the last Kings on the Iron Throne should have taken heed of them. The Dornish population had preferred to fight and die rather than to bow to a foreign tyrant. Unconquered and unbowed were the pillars of their culture. The Rhoynar who had fled the wrath of the Freehold had taught well their descendants.

"It is a beautiful spectacle, isn't it?" Rhaenys murmured to his hear.

He nodded without a world. Thousands of shuttles were rising back in the sky as the sun set over the horizon. The ceremonies and the crowning were over. The soldiers were returning to their ships and the oncoming war, leaving the dunes behind them.

"It is," he agreed. "But it is always beautiful when it begins."

His lover chuckled before caressing his cheeks with her armoured fingers. In her white-yellow armour imitating the scales of a snake, his new Queen was a warrior-goddess made flesh. To know she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath may influence his mind, he recognised.

But he had seen the looks tens of thousands soldiers had given her as they swore to follow her against her genitor. They loved her like he did. They would die for her and trust her not to sell their lives for a frivolity.

The Westerners serving at Casterly Rock, ground or space based, had acclaimed him regularly and his Lord Father received regularly the applauses owed to his position. But compared to today, the cheers of Lannisport and the other planets sworn to House Lannister were ringing false and hollow.

Of course a lot of things he had believed great and noble were empty thing devoid of meaning. This was white he was just her White Knight, not a Kingsguard. She had her Sand Snakes a dedicated regiment for her personal protection, who in her own words would not obey her if she turned mad.

"There will be a lot of trials and battles for my people," her voice echoed his thoughts. "And not everyone will have a happy ending. I know firsthand war is an ugly thing."

"But here we are."

Their hands joined and as the customised armour she had given him was the same shade as hers, the effect was hypnotising as the sun sent its last rays their way. Protector and Queen, admiring a last peaceful day before the storms of battle engulfed the Westeros Quadrant.

"Come," Rhaenys invited him with a smirk full of mischievousness. "I want to want enjoy the tent Tyene gave me for this night."

* * *

 **Lord Varys Tivario, 02.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

Always have two or three moves in advance before anyone else. This was a harsh rule, but if you wanted to survive in the Small Council, you had to anticipate the disasters.

It was why when the Tyroshi civilian transport _Cloud of Optimism_ translated in-system with a Dornish emissary aboard, he was informed of the fact close to three hours before the man set a foot on King's Landing's polluted soil.

Many Lords and Ladies at that particular moment would have exclaimed the audience with the King was going to be interesting.

Varys was not sharing this optimism.

They had sent a battlecruiser and a Kingsguard to Dorne.

A seventy year-old diplomat with no name and unescorted was sent to carry back the message of Doran Martell.

Rhaegar Targaryen had achieved by sheer stupidity what he had worked night and day to avoid.

The Seven Sectors were at war. The 'Long Peace' was over.

Westeros was going to pay in blood for two decades of manipulations, insults, feuds and incompetence.

He could have presented himself in the throne room.

Yes, he could have listened to the familiar grievances and how House Martell had been betrayed at every turn by the Second Mad King.

But what good would it do?

He already knew the great lines of what was going to happen. Sunspear was going to proclaim Rhaenys Targaryen Queen of Westeros. The King was going to order his Dayne attack dog to slay the old Dornish diplomat, soiling a bit more his white cloak by a new ignoble action.

His presence would accomplish nothing. His agents would get him a transcript by the next courier.

At long last, it was time for the Spider to leave the den of the red dragon and accomplish his real job.

"Set course for Gulltown," he ordered to the Captain of the Pentoshi auxiliary Illyrio had left for his personal use. "It is time for the Blackfyre cause to be reborn."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And send on frequency SIN the order to begin the Beheading."

"It will be done."

The Beheading was the little gift he was going to leave to the rest of the Small Council. All his years of loyal service deserved a present, no?

Years ago, he had hoped to leave an automatic plasma gun with high-velocity rounds in the room, but the attacks of the Sparrows had made this impossible.

So he had been forced to improvise.

It was unlikely he was going to kill each and every one of his colleagues, but the resources engaged were rather cheap when compared to the amount of chaos they caused.

Lantion Lannister had a brown-haired mistress he loved to play...exciting games with in an establishment whose name was not going to be uttered by his mouth. Before five days, he would succumb to the lash and the other 'devices' he loved to be struck with in private sessions.

Lord Tommen Costayne next attempt to buy luxury Essossi goods at half-price were going to meet a group of mercenaries with blades and guns.

Littlefinger and his wife loved partaking in things most of the court would find indecent and extremely libertine. Since his girls were unfortunately loyal to the Master of Information, he had taken a book of the Sparrows' methods and paid a few snipers to position themselves in ideal locations. They would shoot him if the opportunity existed.

Alliser Thorne and his chief lieutenants were going to be caught in a prison riot while doing a routine inspection. Their uncountable victims deserved a chance to strike back.

Pycelle regrettably was going to suffer a heart attack when one of the whores he invited every night meddled with his medication.

Ser Jaremy Rykker had a lot of ambitious subordinates ready to help him suffer a tragic accident. The streets of King's Landing were dangerous these days.

High Admiral Monford Velaryon and his gigantic star-yacht were going to experience difficulties. Lack of air and depressurization in space may or may not be involved.

The Master of Assassins was going to have the occasion to prove his title. The Master of Whisperers had leaked to a gang leader how his father had been murdered by his hand and the location of his headquarters.

As for Aron Santagar...he was already dead. On his way to his shuttle, Varys had thrown him two kilometres above the ground and he had not felt in the mood to give him a parachute.

He could watch the stars and he had resigned his impossible job in a definite manner. The day was beginning splendidly.

"Now we only have to win this civil war..."

* * *

 **Commander of Five Thousand Diana Ker, 02.09.300AAC, Westbrook System**

Diana Ker hated the Reach without reserve.

Two decades ago, it had not been the case. But two decades ago, the Tyrells and all their friends had not been busy stabbing Dorne in the back the moment they thought Princess Elia Martell and all these millions of Dornish troopers were no longer needed. Her brother had died at the Trident for nothing. Her cousin had died at the Trident for nothing.

This whole war, engineered by the Rapist Rhaegar, had been fought on the wrong side.

Diana's parents, modest merchants transporting their goods from Sunspear to Oldtown, had been ruined five years later by the new tariffs imposed by several Reach Houses towards Dornish exportations.

So yes, Commander of Five Thousand Diana Ker hated the Reach Sector. To be fair, she also loathed the Crown and these bastards who thought they were the master of the galaxy in their high ivory towers of King's Landing. She was a Dornish woman. Anger and vengeance could burn a long time in her veins.

Of her entire family, she was the last. They were all dead and she would soon join them back. She could have tried for a child during this disgusting 'Long Peace', but to be honest she had never seen herself as a mother and she didn't want to leave a little boy or girl alone in an uncaring universe.

She was a Dornish officer. She would not die in her bed while the monsters sworn to the Iron Throne lived.

This was why she had volunteered for Operation Midnight. Prince Oberyn Martell himself had briefed them on the details of their part of the plan. The Red Viper had not tried to hide to her or anyone listening to his words the odds.

Midnight was a suicide mission.

The analysts had tried thousands of simulations and each time their entire force was destroyed to the last. This was why of the entire crew of the four Q-ships of her command she was the only soldier who had not celebrated her fifty name days.

Of course, just because the strategists and the High Command had said so didn't mean they had not trained eight hours per day during six months. They were going in the inferno of war, but damn every God and Demon of this Galaxy if they were found wanting.

They had continued to train in Deep Space as they slowly made their way to their target through the Void, avoiding rifts, cosmic storms and the patrols of the Reach Navy.

Now the last minutes of wait were nearly over. Four million kilometres away, the gigantic shipyards of Westbrook were surrounded by thousand of ships both military and civilian. In their yards, an entire generation of new warships was built, one so large the entire Dornish would perish in one battle trying in vain to stop it if it was ever completed.

This was her target and she had four Q-ships carrying in their modified hulls two hundred starfighters to explain these fucking Reachers the war was not going to happen like they wanted.

It was a tiny squadron to attack such a massive construction when nearly a hundred capital ships were nearby, but surprise and confusion were going to be their allies in this fight.

Maybe there were more Dornish ships on their way to strike other shipyards. Diana honestly didn't know; operational security was always tight in the Princedom and given the resources allowed it was possible there were dozens of other strike forces. It was possible she was the only one too.

The Commander of Five Thousand watched the chronometric displays an instant before giving the order.

"Load the special warheads on our starfighters."

This was it, she knew, as whispers of confirmation resonated on her bridge. There was no return after this. The declaration of war must have arrived to the capital, but the Reachers cared only about their nice conventions when they were winning. The attack of their biggest shipyard and the deaths of tens of thousands were going to start the greatest war of this century.

Diana Ker felt a twinge of sorrow. It did not last. Her hate was stronger and filled hear heart and her lungs anew.

"Into the fires of battle," she murmured, "unto the anvil of war."

* * *

 **Author's note** : And so the Dying Peace Arc ends. The lines have been drawn, the warships have been built and the alliances broken. Trust has been killed repeatedly in the last decade, and the ambitions and the greed of the Lords has not been diminished in the slightest.

Now only war awaits Westeros and this is going to be the greatest conflict of this millennium. Rhaenys, Aegon, Joffrey, Viserys, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, Victarion, Rhaenyra and many others will have their part to play in this tragedy of fire, war and ice.

If you want more to read, the maps and the warships I use as models or the tropes, here are the interesting links.

TV Tropes Page: / pmwiki/ / Fanfic/ LetTheGalaxyBurn

Alternate History page (useful for conversations, maps and ships models but you need an account, you have to remove the spaces): www. alternate history forum/ threads/ let-the-galaxy-burn- asoiaf-space-opera-au.396049 /

If you want to support my writing on P a treon, the link is: www. p a treon Antony444

Winter is coming!


	15. Sneak Attacks

**War of the Ten Warlords Arc**

 **Chapter 1**

 **Sneak Attacks**

 _The starfighters of the False Mouse-class were at their moment of production promised to a brilliant future. Born in the shipyards of House Allyrion in the Dorne Princedom, these new war engines were one of the successful symbols of the union between Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell._

 _The first prototype was built in 278AAC and the returns from Dornish and Crown Admirals were largely positive. The False Mouse starfighter was a purpose-built ship-killer and its acceleration and its agility rivalled its space-superiority cousins. Able to carry four missiles on its external ports and two counter-missiles inside its hull, equipped with a brand-new fusion reactor, the False Mouse was considered a great asset by the different navy commanders of Westeros._

 _The Usurper's War should have seen the rise of this starfighter. Instead, it was its doom. The souring of the relationships between Dorne and the Crown Sector made sure the Hulian Corporation lost every contract it had been able to secure in the King's Landing System. Militarily, the False Mouse never recovered from the Battle of the Trident. If in the first waves the Dornish and Crown pilots managed to mission-kill over thirty rebel scout and light cruisers, they were promptly massacred by the Northern battlecruisers; the heavily-armoured warships of House Stark were mostly invulnerable to their primary armament._

 _After Downfall, the Hulian Corporation officially announced its bankruptcy, and its material assets were liquidated. Other firms seized the existing shipyards and no new False Mouse model was ever produced. The completed fighters which had not been destroyed or scrapped in the course of the conflict were mothballed in the Sunspear Strategic Reserve._

 _For a war engine, it was undoubtedly an ignominious end. One thousand and two hundred starfighters were abandoned to the mercy of aged inspectors and old administrators. The hope that a False Mouse was authorised to fly once again had died long ago. Even assuming House Martell or an important Lord decided to spend his influence in a lost cause, the endeavour would be ruinous and calamitous._

 _The stock of spare parts was so low it could be considered non-existent. The systems and the missiles were now obsolete...and while it was always possible to recruit people to correct the former, conceiving a new missile or adapt an existing one to the starfighter would be time-intensive._

 _It was obvious no reasonable war plan could include these starfighters._

 _Unfortunately for Lord Mace Tyrell and the Reach Sector as a whole, Operation Midnight was not a reasonable war plan._

Extract from Burning Wings: the Westerosi starfighters of the Long Night by Korys of the Grey, 370AAC.

* * *

 **Commander of Five Thousand Diana Ker, 02.09.300AAC, Westbrook System**

The target was ridiculously huge.

This might feel like a stupid description, Diana had to admit.

Space stations were always huge, from a warship's captain perspective. Unlike a starship, these massive man-made constructions were virtually immobile unless hundreds or thousands of tugs towed them to a new position. And this one hadn't been displaced from the moment it was assembled above the barren brown planet it orbited.

The Reach forces called it the Grand Westbrook Shipyard and while it was not big enough to be in the top ten of the biggest spatial structures in this Quadrant, it was worth the view. Sixty-one kilometres in length, eight kilometres wide and four kilometres high, the Targaryens and their Tyrell dogs had not been purse-tight when it came to order the thing.

It was a pity for them they had not invested in turrets, armour, proper shielding and other types of offensive and defensive equipment. The assemblage of docks and platforms looked like a child had tried to build a puzzle with half of the pieces set in the wrong place.

"The neutron bombs are armed and the starfighters are ready, Commander," informed her formally her second.

"In this case, I suppose it's time." Time for us to accomplish our mission and die in a blaze of glory which was denied to us for seventeen years, she didn't add. "Prepare the catapults for launch in ten seconds."

"Electromagnetic catapults armed and ready to launch in ten seconds, aye," confirmed the Operations officer on the bridge.

There was a hungry pause and then the fateful order was uttered.

"Launch!"

On the three other Q-ships under her command, the same words were spoken and the result was beautiful. One second, the converted Dornish hulls were moving slowly and carefully with their furtive systems active and minimal emissions demanded for everything else.

A second later, two hundred starfighters were ejected at a formidable acceleration from their launching bays. Their engines roaring at full power, they would enter attack range in about forty-six seconds.

For the Q-ships, the simple and long part of the mission was done...now they just had to stay alive the longest time possible for the starfighters to be rearmed. There was no guarantee a single strike was sufficient...

"Engines full power!" she barked to her bridge subordinates. "Set course for Point C-3. Engage all counter-measures!"

Under their feet, the venerable hull groaned and vibrated. Ponderously, the Q-ship began to turn and increase the distance between them and the great Westbrook shipyard. It was slow and maddening, but there was nothing to do except pray and watch the display where the starfighters charged to attack the Grand Westbrook Shipyard. The Q-ships converted for Operation Midnight had received military furtive systems and accommodations for the launch and reception of fighters, but nothing else. The cost of giving a civilian starship military-grade fusion reactors and engines would have made the costs of the operation soar exponentially and for a suicide attack in the middle of enemy territory this could not be justified.

Besides, the Tyrells and their bannersmen had obviously been caught by surprise. It was evident as suddenly the shipyards began to emit thousands of different sensors and uncountable voices began to fill all known frequencies.

"Alert!" shouted her fourth-in-command in the improvised tactical section. "Warships detected right behind us! At least one ship of the line, two battlecruisers, six heavy cruisers, ten scout cruisers and five carriers! The Reach starfighters are launching! Distance two hundred thousand kilometres!"

Diana Ker winced. So the local defence force had left a picket they hadn't been able to see close by.

"Inform the starfighters we aren't going to be able to rearm them," she heard herself affirm stonily.

Two hundred thousand kilometres was in the missile range of every navy worth the name. And since the four Dornish Q-ships including hers had zero offensive armament, they were dead meat.

"Missiles separation!" was announced with little surprise two seconds later. "Over two hundred missiles and one hundred starfighters are coming our way. Estimated time of flight: two minutes and fifty seconds..."

On the bridge of a conventional warship, the tactical display should have been busy showing all the little red dots coming to end their lives. But the Q-ships had not a single chance to survive this storm, and so the crude device which had been installed for the bridge showed instead the False Mouse-class starfighters and their progression.

From their sensors thousands of kilometres away, it was almost peaceful.

Two hundred starfighters dating from the Usurper's Rebellion, each armed with four neutron missiles. Diana would have preferred use conventional laser warheads or the ancient – but still deadly – nuclear bombs, but the False Mouse external ports could only carry very specific ammunition...and most of it had been scrapped or recycled after the shameful end of the hostilities.

Neutron bombs were more anti-fighter ammunition than the fortress-breakers ideal for the job...but this was all they had.

And as the first flashes of blue began to detonate, it seemed it was good enough in the end.

There were too many to count, even with the help of their civilian consoles. But given the lights and the succession of explosions, the percentage of neutron bombs which had fulfilled their purpose had been high.

"YES!" The relief when one-third of the big space station splintered and tore itself apart was tremendous. Under their ecstatic eyes, the massive station vented air, water, debris and starships parts ranging from a fist to a small mountain in size.

The two hundred False Mouse-class fighters deserved their song of victory.

"Strike Leader Hara reports one super-battleship, fifty-plus ships of the line, seventy-plus battlecruisers and over a hundred smaller cruisers destroyed..."

The old and scarred elder in charge of communications was not carried in triumph, but the effusions of joy were a good substitute.

"Confirm and update for our drones," the Commander of Five Thousand told softly in the boisterous ambiance. "Sunspear will want the data."

The next reports of the pilots were more and more exultant...certainly because each of their pass with their small laser battery caused further damage to the Westbrook dockyards. In construction like this, the capital warships were as vulnerable as the scout cruisers since most of their defences were inactive and their armour had several large holes in it where the construction work was done.

"I have killed five ships of the line, seven battlecruisers, one fleet carrier and five heavy cruisers," was the kind of affirmation coming into their ears...and for probably the first time in history, her crew did not call the pilots to ask them if they had sniffed forbidden drugs before their launch.

"We must have killed at least twice the tonnage of our fleet, by the Great Wyrm!"

But one look at the rear sensors and it was clear there would be no time to finish the task with a second wave. The Reach missiles were coming right in their throats...and a Q-ship was sentenced to death in this environment.

"In the name of Queen Rhaenys..." she started.

There was intense brightness, pain and then nothing.

* * *

 **Lord Warryn Beesbury, 02.09.300AAC, Honeyholt System**

One of the first lessons his poor father had insisted on when he was a child, was to appear confident no matter how difficult or morally hard the challenge was.

It was a bit hard today. Not every Lord of Honeyholt had seen during its life a plasma cannon floating in front of him followed by half of the dockyard where it had been built.

"How bad are our losses?" He asked his cousin Bertram, who for the last four years had taken the role of his chief of staff.

"I think we can call them 'very bad' without risk, my Lord," the eyes and the rest of the visage of the red-faced Knight were darker than they had ever been. "The Big Bee began as a civilian shipyard, it was the middle of the night and we had more or less two minutes before the bastards attacked."

Ser Bertram Beesbury shook his head like he couldn't believe the numbers displayed in his hands.

"Our men did their best, my Lord. But we had no reason to believe war was imminent or that the Dornish were going to strike in such a suicidal manner."

Warryn watched the Beesbury Serenity Yards, most commonly called 'Big Bee' by everyone, and his heart ached. Five hours after the attack, and his station continued to vent debris and airs. Explosions continued to rock the structure too. About fifteen percent of the entire station had already lost cohesion and the first analyses showed they were going to lose more before the next days were over.

One hour ago he had tried to watch the holo-videos the rescue teams had but after a few minutes it was too ugly for his brain to handle. The screams in the corridors engulfed with toxic fumes were awful. There were workers and their families trapped everywhere under the debris. Ship parts were floating, disintegrating or collapsing without warning. In some hangar bays, the blood had created rivers of red liquid, as the human corpses were hammered and pulverised by the forces of gravities and several shock waves.

It was an atmosphere of nightmare and despair...and nothing could stop it. Already everything he had in his system of rescue, salvage and medical services were working to save civilians and soldiers trapped in this hell. Raven-drones and couriers had been sent to all neighbouring systems, but they would need time to arrive...and every minute the insane casualties' numbers increased a bit more.

The Lord of Honeyholt had never bought the anti-Dornish propaganda sprouted by the diverse holo-news sponsored by his Lord Paramount before today. That in hindsight had been an error. He felt his fury return at the idea that thousands of light-years away, a Dornish Commander had marked his system for death and destruction like he ordered his wine cup. Monstrous and against every principle of chivalry and custom, his mind screamed. When he learned the name of the Dornish whore responsible for this bloodbath, because no one but a woman would dare fight like this, Warryn swore he was going to spend his fortune buying a long and painful death for the bitch.

"We killed all the bastards, my Lord."

"They never wanted to survive in the first place, I fear."

Four merchant starships converted in Q-ships plus two hundred old starfighters had been thrown against his shipyards and they had only time for a single wave before his heavy cruisers and his starfighters slaughtered them in a one-sided revenge.

"Their sole and only objective was the destruction of our new warships' generation. And unless the Father Himself gives us a miracle in the next days, I must assume they have achieved their goals. Now give me the numbers, beginning with the people we lost."

"Of course, my Lord," agreed Bertram. "The records were updated less than two hours before this treacherous aggression, so we have a definite count of two hundred and thirty-one thousand, seven hundred and eight people who were aboard Big Bee. So far, we have a bit over twenty thousand survivors..."

It was hard not to explode. Two hundred and ten thousand men, women and their families, killed in an attack that was truly unconscionable for civilised and reasonable beings.

"I have not a hard count on smallfolk and highborn losses, but I think the two Knight Houses we gave the responsibility of Big Bee, Houses Wasp and Mantis, have just been wiped out."

The only consolation in this tragedy, Warryn hoped, was the fact their demises had been instantaneous: the neutron bombs fired over their station sector had hit several hydrogen fuel tanks. They had not suffered...he hoped.

"In our case, the fate of the warships is inconsequential but the economic fall is going to be...severe, my Lord."

"Our fleet is mostly intact," replied the Lord of Honeyholt unhappily. "Unless Highgarden wishes to loan us some units, we will have to work with what is already commissioned and in service." Warryn sighed. "Give me the detail in tonnage."

It was of course likely the intention of these Seven-damned Dornish. But what else could he do? Ships of the line didn't build themselves overnight, and after the beating his military shipyard had just received, times were going to be unpleasant.

"According to the latest figures, we had in construction fourteen ships of the line, seven armoured cruisers of the experimental class, five battlecruisers, one hundred and three heavy cruisers of the special contract, nine light cruisers, twenty-eight scout cruisers, three light carriers, seven escort carriers and thirty-plus starfighters in the dockyards of Big Bee, in addition to fifty supply/support auxiliaries."

To sum-up, a sizeable task force had just been wiped out and the Dornish had used obsolete and converted civilian ships to do it. It was a humiliation.

It was also war, for this despicable attack was not going to remain unpunished.

"When it is over, the Martells and their bannersmen are going to burn in the Seven Hells for this..."

* * *

 **Ser Edmund Ambrose, 02.09.300AAC, Ambrose System**

"Do you think they are striking other systems as we speak?"

The voice of Lord Arthur Ambrose was wrathful as another Dornish starfighter succumbed to the lasers batteries of three scout cruisers.

"I don't know my Lord," replied hesitantly Edmund. "But the Ambrose System is not especially valuable compared to Highgarden and Oldtown and they have chosen to attack us. If we are on their list of targets, then it's...logical they strike elsewhere, for ravaging the Ambrose System alone makes no sense at all."

"My thoughts exactly," the blow his Lord and Master delivered to the tactical display in front of him did not shatter the console, but this was because the devices were protected to resist the impacts of warheads.

On the image, the infrastructure invested by House Ambrose to build the new battlecruisers was torn apart and consuming itself. Series of explosions were literally uncountable and by now Edmund didn't see what could save the shipyards from their tragic end. A Q-ship had rammed the biggest platforms half a minute ago, and added to the damage the neutron bombs had already done it was sufficient to kill more men than the system had lost in the Usurper and the Greyjoy Rebellions together.

"Dispatch immediately couriers to Highgarden, Bitterbridge, Ashford, Oldtown and Goldengrove. The faster we know the extent of the damage these traitors have caused, the faster we can plan our counter-attack and the punishments which will accompany it."

"Yes, my Lord." As he spoke, the last Q-ship went from solid matter to mini-star under the fire of several heavy cruisers.

"If the sand rats want a war, we are going to give them one they will remember for all eternity, by the Seven!"

* * *

 **Ser Boros Blount, 02.09.300AAC, Griffin's Roost System**

Boros had thought his travel to the Griffin's Roost System was going to be boring when he was given his orders. Nobody had dared telling him so to his face, but it was obvious he had been chosen as replacement for Ser Jaime Lannister.

Now that the exiled Kingsguard had been given a new dangerous duty, the King and the Small Council needed other Knights to patrol the vast neglected areas of the Storm Sector. Patrols, inspections and boring paperwork were the day-per-day orders and the Blount Knight was honestly impressed Ser Jaime has not shot himself after years of boredom.

But everything had changed six hours ago...when the Dornish had decided it was time to begin a new war – which gave poor odds to Ser Jaime Lannister's survival. The great shipyards of the Griffin's Belt had been attacked in a deadly and incredibly violent starfighter offensive...and the precautions House Connington had put in place to avoid this had failed utterly.

No, perhaps it wasn't fair. The previous sentence implied there had been defences and contingencies to defend the Griffin's Belt, heart of the orbital industry in the Griffin's Roost System. Unfortunately, Boros was not skilled enough to discover them...which meant either they were in overhaul or they didn't exist at all!

And with the majority of the Connington fleet at Fawnton, the second-rate units in patrols and the fixed forts unable to intervene, the False Mouse-class starfighters had fired all their content in the ranks of immobile and incomplete warships. The Dornish pilots had shot the shipyards, the foundries and everything else with their blue neutron bombs like it was training time.

Two attacks were overkill, so naturally the snakes had done it four times and thoroughly smashed the entire Griffin's Belt at the price of two Q-ships and one hundred and thirty starfighters. Yes, the last two had gotten away with seventy engines. If the defeat had not cost the Seven Sectors over two hundred thousand dead, Boros would have laughed. For a House which prided itself to be loyal, reliable and quick to rally against any threat, the Connington line had been caught with their pants down. And the recordings of the 'battle' told a tale of incompetence it would have been hard to believe if he wasn't there in the first place.

And then there was the Heir of House Connington, the spoilt brat named Rhaegar. It was enlightening to hear him rant.

"I will kill them! I will kill all the Dornish bastards! I will kill them like one kill a scorpion! We will explode their heads with big rocks. Instead of kinetic strikes, we will use asteroids to make their planets a volcanic hellhole they will be forced to live in for all eternity! It is only justice!"

The scarier part was that this brat had indeed the influence to suggest just that to the court...

After the reprisals, there was the question where the blame should be laid...and it was not at the feet of this young imbecile.

"You were completely incompetent in your duties! It is your lack of vigilance and your slow reaction times which have enabled the snakes to fight us in such a perfidious manner! I will make sure Lord Connington knows who is responsible and demotions will be handed before the month is over!"

Then the rant returned, stronger and with new threats to vociferate. Boros was very glad at this moment he was not an officer of the Storm Sector. The red and white uniforms looked like they wanted to be anywhere else but on the great conference room giving a direct view on the planet ruled by House Connington.

"The Martells, the Allyrions, the Daynes, the Ullers, the Yronwoods...all of them are traitors! We will sever their hands for they don't deserve to have them! Their men will be sterilised and sold to Essos as eunuchs! Their women will be raped and we will use them as whores for our pleasures! The planets will be used to stock industrial waste and we will poison their atmosphere so deeply they will thank us when we remove them from their homelands! We will destroy their guns, scuttle their starships and plunge their armament programs in the depth of their suns! When they will beg on their knees, no Dornish will have the right to hold a weapon and we will decapitate those who will dare defy this edict!"

And it continued like this for a good hour, the red-haired brat shouting and screaming like a street preacher, agitating his arms and half-grimacing, a spectacle so ridiculous Boros was sorry he couldn't record it to bring it with him to King's Landing.

"Prepare the _Loyal Griffin_ ," barked Rhaegar Connington when he had expended most of his anger, fury and credibility. The last point may be over his head though, as Lord Jon's eldest son didn't care about the bewildered expressions showed by senior officers. "I must go to Fawnton and warn my father in person of this ignoble attack against our system."

Boros rolled his eyes. If he was an uncharitable fellow, he would say the Heir of Griffin's Roost was running away to present his version of events first to daddy.

But it was not the case, of course. Wasn't it?

The moment the doors closed, there was a loud moment of relief across the room.

No officer shouted 'good riddance' by fear of spy devices, but their faces betrayed them and Boros couldn't blame them at all...

* * *

 **Ser Willas Tyrell, 03.09.300AAC, Highgarden System**

Willas felt old as he sat on the chair he had commissioned expressly for his office ten months ago.

And yes, he was well aware he was twenty-five years old, thank you very much.

But he felt old. It was not because he felt pain from his bad leg, the result of an unfortunate starfighter accident where he had ejected too late. No, today the exhaustion was mental and could not be solved by some medicine and a few hours of sleep.

"I suppose I should tell Father 'I told you so'," the Heir of Highgarden said morosely, lighting his personal console and trying not to wince as the images of a half-completed heavy cruiser was shredded by megatons of explosive ordnance. "But being right in this case just makes me feel guiltier about this entire fiasco."

Willas had tried to make his voice heard in the last three years about this very subject. The defences of Westbrook had been incredibly weak given the importance the Reach Navy had given to the system where its new construction programs were located, and in theory it should have meant stationing three or four squadrons of ships of the line a light-minute or two away. Laser batteries, anti-missile launchers and several forts should have surrounded the great shipyards.

But Lord Westbrook had not hidden his aversion to anything preventing him from reducing the benefits of the juicy warships construction programs he received, and as a result the space around the Grand Westbrook Shipyard had been vulnerable. Thanks to his suggestions, there had been four pickets including one with capital warships able to answer, but the enemy commander had pressed on in a suicidal manner, assuming correctly their fleet could blast the Q-ships away but not prevent the False Mouse-class starfighters from blowing everything to the Seven Hells.

"It's not your fault," Garlan put up a brave face, and Willas thanked him with a poor smile. His younger brother was a morale-booster in these circumstances and he knew how invaluable his help was in these troubled times. "You tried to warn them..."

"I'm afraid this is not going to be enough, this time." The holo-images were dispersed on the four walls at his command, revealing more warships destroyed, more lives broken, more funds and resources burning and more families sacrificed on the altar of war and carnage. "They will need a scapegoat for this one and while Lord Westbrook is going to take most of the fall, I'm afraid I'm going to receive my share of outraged screams for this catastrophe."

"But you had your hands tied and Lord Cordwayner, Varner, Dunn, Middlebury and Graves against you!"

"And?" Willas shrugged in a disappointed tone. "You think because these idiots have refused to listen when I told them the bombs were going to blow in their faces, they are going to thank me for being right? Please," the temptation to roll his eyes was getting stronger.

"When someone," the Heir of Highgarden insisted sarcastically on the last word, "tells them the stars are going to go supernova and the events prove him right, it will make the deaf Lords eager to punish the one who warned them, not give him medals of congratulations."

If he had not been a Tyrell and protected by his name, his rank and shielded by his influence, it was quite likely his career would have stalled years ago. As it was, Willas was not officially assigned to fourth-rate tasks like Houses Tarly and Florent, but his title of 'Admiral of the Reach for Planetary Defence Command' was worth...well, if his name wasn't Tyrell, it wouldn't be worth the material support it was printed upon.

"At least you won't have Lord Ambrose on your list of opponents," declared Garlan, who was really trying to search the good points in the middle of this nightmare.

"Yes, I suppose..."

The news had come one hour ago the Ambrose new wave of warships was in the process of receiving the same treatment which had been given to Westbrook. Of course, all he and the rest of the Highgarden High Command had was a raven-drone, but the similar number of attackers tended to support the theory House Martell and Dorne as a whole had decided to massacre the greatest amount of warships while they couldn't fire back.

"How many attacks can we expect, brother?"

Willas had thought about it the moment the first panicked messages arrived from Westbrook. The answer, unfortunately, was not rejoicing.

"Assuming whoever planned this strategy at Sunspear decided to limit himself to four Q-ships and two hundred starfighters per attack, his forces will be able to strike five or six systems in total," his eyes turned to fix those of Garlan. "I consulted the ancient estimations of our spies. There were one thousand and two hundred starfighters of this class placed in mothball."

Garlan grimaced like when Mother told him the vegetables he didn't like were on the menu.

"On the other hand, having old war supplies in mothball is not the same as having them ready for active service and unless I'm mistaken, a lot of the Crown technology used for these engines is now completely unavailable to the Dornish. There is also the point starfighters pilots need training on their machines, suicide operation or not. I refuse to believe someone like Prince Oberyn Martell would have send pilots unable to distinguish their right from their left away from the Princedom."

"Four or five, then," as always, Garlan was quick to arrive to the same conclusions he had.

"If I had to bet, it would be four." On his console, he displayed the accuracy of the neutron bombs which had killed so many of his people. "The Dornish may have sacrificed these men and women, but these were well-trained pilots out there. I find their attack disgusting and I will not shed a tear when we will kill the bastards having imagined this treachery, but I have to recognise it was superbly executed and prepared."

And if Willas was asked by his Father to answer honestly whether the Reach cruiser squadrons could retaliate the same way this year, he would be forced to answer negatively. Dorne had declared war in a dishonourable and perfidious manner, but sadly there was no question they had forged their blades a long time to be ready on D-Day.

"Four targets..." told Garlan. "I would say Westbrook, Ambrose, Honeyholt and Bitterbridge. They avoided capital systems like Oldtown and Highgarden, gave us a bloody nose, pulverised plenty of brand-new classes and want to force us to send our battle-fleet in the direction of the Marches before..."

"Before we are ready to take the field against the Lannisters, you can say it." It was maddening and Willas was certain more problems were in transit for him and would bury him under tons of work in the next days. "I don't know if Bitterbridge will be one of the targets... for all we know the Dornish starships could attack the Storm Sector too and Connington and his friends have poured billions in their new battle-fleet."

It gave him the awful feeling to sit on a mountain of randomly-activated nukes. Lord Jon Connington's reputation, to say it politely, was not stellar among his main bannersmen. Thanks to Willas and his family, it could rightly be affirmed the Storm Sector was ruined and the unemployment rates had increased as fast as their debts. There had been of course no correspondence found between Lord Stannis Baratheon and Prince Doran Martell, but if the Dornish destroyed the shipyards of Griffin's Roost...

Looking at Garlan, he could see his younger brother was playing the same scenario in his head. The Reach fleet would be forced to send the majority of its forces to its south-eastern frontier before they lost everything. Willas didn't have a perfect memory of what the Dornish and the Storm Sector could field with a month or two of preparations, but it was likely Highgarden would require at least forty or fifty ships of the line to deal with them. And while these ships were busy killing Dornish and Stormlanders rebels, the Lannisters were not going to stay idle...

"The Storm Sector," he didn't like to voice it aloud, but there was no use in private denying the truth. "It's the Storm Sector where this entire rebellion must be stopped. If we manage to reinforce Connington in time, Stannis Baratheon and his supporters will grumble and grit their teeth, but they won't have the will to raise their arms in revolt. And Dorne alone can be stopped and repulsed with thousands of starfighters and hundreds of battlecruisers."

"Nightsong has powerful fixed and mobile defences," murmured Garlan. "I think House Caron can hold for a month or two but I'm uncertain about House Dondarrion. They had a lot of economic problems lately..."

Willas would have preferred an assurance the warriors of the Storm Marches were armed to the teeth and waiting their hereditary enemies with hungry eyes.

"Who will take command of the squadrons against Dorne, then?"

"Father will insist on Lord Mathis Rowan, I think," two decades ago, Lord Randyll Tarly would have been the best choice to scare their enemies into submission but his death at the Trident had robbed the Reach of its greatest military commander. "He should be near the Cider Hall System as we speak, and I see one or two squadrons which can easily reinforce him without touching the forces we have assembled here. If I can convince Father, Lord Rowan can enter the Storm Sector before the end of the month in overwhelming strength."

"Grandmother will likely support you on this one."

"Yes," though with Olenna Tyrell, the convincing could be simple like it could be hellishly complicated. "I just hope this deployment won't come too late."

Because if Dorne and Storm's End were really working together, then the Reach and Griffin's Roost were in a world of pain. And it was worrying. The Conningtons' supporters were rare and one or two had tired themselves garrisoning the Lonely Light in the Iron Sector. The Baratheons' supporters were likely more powerful; they were logically more popular and angry at the status quo. And if two entire Sectors were in rebellion against the Iron Throne, others were going to jump into the hurricane of war. The Lannisters came to mind, but they weren't alas the only ones. The Starks and the Arryns were friends of the Baratheons, so if one moved the former rebels were not going to let the supporters of the deceased Usurper be defeated without reaction. The Iron Sector would raise its banners once more if they were given the chance and the occupation forces departed...

Willas tried to maintain an appearance of calm in front of his brother. Something told him he wasn't entirely successful in that regard.

"We will end this treachery before year's end," we have to, he didn't tell aloud. "Now, I suppose it is time to give you the casualty numbers. Lord Westbrook tells us he had already confirmed over three hundred thousand dead..."

* * *

 _At a time where the prospects of war were still unknown to the majority of the planetary populations and the councils of war were talked in shadowy rooms, few Lords and Ladies expected for the great conflict of their time to set Westeros aflame in 300AAC._

 _For several Sectors, the war operations had yet to be completed. Fleets were months away from completion and official commission. The grand musters of infantry armies and tank corps were debated and modified by the quartermasters and the logistical experts. Tens of thousands men who should have been mobilised were participating in harvests or the many tasks demanded by them in their civilian's life._

 _But Queen Rhaenys Targaryen, First of the Warlords to enter the dance of war, had not left her opponents the chance to enjoy peace and wait patiently until their preparations were complete. Midnight struck the Westbrook, Ambrose, Honeyholt and Griffin's Roost Systems, killing the Long Peace and plunging the realm of the Seven Sectors in a new era of blood and darkness._

 _The loyalist forces, unprepared for these sneak attacks, lost their new generation of warships in the shipyards, defenceless and unarmed. Billions of gold dragons' investments were reduced to orbital debris in less than twenty-four hours. The coordinated offensive left simply no chance to the men sworn to King Rhaegar Targaryen._

 _One million and twenty-five thousand men, women and children were dead. The Knightly Houses Westhaven, Starseeker, Wasp, Mantis, Cicada and Greenvalley went extinct in the explosions. Two super-battleships, one hundred and thirty-three ships of the line, seven armoured cruisers, three hundred and thirteen battlecruisers, five hundred and thirty heavy cruisers, three hundred and thirty-nine light cruisers, five hundred and sixty-one scout cruisers, five fleet carriers, ninety-three light carriers, one hundred and ninety-nine escort carriers, two thousand six hundred and thirty starfighters along with two hundred and forty-seven support/repair/supply ships would no longer enter service._

 _The new 'Grand Fleet 300 Project' promised by Lord Mace Tyrell to King's Landing had fought its first and last battle, destroyed by obsolete starfighters and hastily converted merchant ships._

 _Now the true hostilities could begin._

Extract from The Galaxy in Flames by Korys of the Grey, 374AAC.

* * *

 **Colonel Janos Slynt, 03.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

It was a bad day to be a Goldcloak.

This was Janos' opinion, and so far not one of his men had decided to tell him he was wrong. He almost regretted it, to say the truth. Knowing his reasoning and his ideas were unreliable would have been bad, but not worse compared to the problems he saw coming for the next hours. And there was little chance the political situation was going to get better.

The Seven Sectors were at war.

Oh, Galactic Targaryen News had not sold it that way yesterday evening. According to the bards and weird birds authorised to speak their honeyed words in front of millions of spectators, the relationships between Dorne and the Seven Sectors needed a 'deep reform'.

It was a funny explanation to describe the murder of a Dornish diplomat in front of the entire court and at the King's order. Janos had not been present of course, but half a hundred Goldcloaks had been assembled in front of the Iron Throne and the men talked, orders to stay quiet or not.

Dorne had declared war. Just the mention of this word was enough to give him nausea. Janos Slynt had marched in the ruins and corpse-filled alleys created by the Usurper's War in the capital itself. He didn't want to live scenes of carnage like this again. Many aged officers shared the same opinion, although they took great care not to spread this opinion in public. There were ambitious men in the City's Watch who thrived on denunciation and stabbing their superiors in the back, and several could be a few metres behind you for all you knew.

But yes, it was war. All because the King and his eldest daughter exiled to Dorne had decided the realm was too small for their big heads. Why couldn't they decide the fate of the Iron Throne with a duel at twenty metres and flame-throwers? They were dragons, weren't they?

And ultimately, who was called early in the morning to fix the mess? Certainly not the Gold Fists or the Secret Police!

"...and so while Lord Commander Rykker believes not every Dornish man and woman supports this rebellion, it is better to err on the side of caution. By the Royal Order of His Majesty Rhaegar Targaryen, every Dornish-born highborn, merchant and smallfolk is to be arrested and transported to a centre of detention on Rhaenys' moon."

"Thank you, Vyr," Janos congratulated his communications officer. And he was sincere: six months ago, the young man would not have been able to read this message even if his life depended on it. The 'schools' in slums like Fleabottom were frequently expelling illiterate people once they had filled their heads with the usual propaganda.

"You heard our orders," he turned to watch the three hundred men waiting in the hall, most of them hand-picked for this operation. "We are supposed to arrest any Dornish we come across."

There were plenty of snorts, smirks and other marks of disbelief in the ranks of his Goldcloaks. Three seconds later, a lone hand rose over the shaved heads of two former gang members.

"Yes, Yor," he breathed out loud, knowing what was coming before a word was spoken.

"Colonel, are our lords and masters aware all Dornish warships and crew fled the system five days ago?"

"I am sure," the Goldcloak Colonel did his best to maintain a professional tone for the spies and listening devices waiting for a reason to fire him, "that our superiors have taken this into account."

In reality, he believed nothing of the sort. Since yesterday, there were thousands of rumours coming from upstairs, each more unbelievable than the other. And the facts they could confirm were not giving a pretty holo-picture of the global situation. The headquarters and every branch of the Crown Intelligence Agency were empty, with no trace of their former owners. The Master of Coin had been assassinated under 'troubled circumstances' that would by all rights be heavily censored.

"But we are exacted to show vigilance and give no respite to the traitors!" It was more or less the same words which had arrived in a sealed letter from the Red Keep two hours ago. "The King, in his great generosity, has promised a reward of a hundred gold dragons for every ten Dornish arrested..."

The familiar light of greed began to burn in the eyes of his men. Janos maintained his Colonel's face, but inside he felt a headache. Now every Goldcloak, from Sergeant to General, was going to arrest right and left 'suspicious dark-skinned people' in the hope at the end of the day he was going to increase his income by several hundred dragons.

"Are there any questions?" He asked to the assembly and received only negative nods with determined faces. The Goldcloaks were eager to run to the streets and arrest anybody who might or might not be a Dornish visitor. "Good, then..."

"Colonel, you have to see this!" A Goldcloak Lieutenant barged in the hall, ignoring all protocol and with most of his uniform looking like he had fought in a crowd. In his hands was a holo-newspaper.

Janos at this point was ready to bet a million dragons he wasn't going to like what information could be read on it.

"This newspaper is distributed everywhere on the streets, Colonel...and there are crowds..."

Janos seized it with a glare at the bearer of bad news and read vaguely the name of this sensational piece of crap...and he didn't recognise it. Instantly, it meant illegal publication and he should have destroyed it by the tenets of the Ministry of Information...but something looking like curiosity pushed him to continue. And whoever had imagined the name had clearly decided to not stop at the first obstacle.

 **THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE**

And under it, the titles were in a heavy contest to show the most spectacular topic.

 **MASTER OF COIN DIES IN A BDSM PARTY**

 **SHOCKING CORRUPTION IN THE NAVY**

 **LORD BUCKWELL KEEPS SEVEN MISTRESSES AT KING'S LANDING**

 **THE TEN THINGS THE MASTER OF INFORMATION DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW**

 **THE KING HAS DECLARED PROPHECIES WILL BE THE BASE OF HIS NEW RULE**

 **RAPE, MURDER, EXPLOSION AND BRIBERY: THE SORDID END OF HOUSE ROSBY**

 **THE BLOODY HUMAN WAVE: YOUR GENERALS' FAVOURITE TACTICS**

New Goldcloaks troops arrived, and delivered hundreds of newspapers they must have confiscated. But Janos didn't really care. He was reading paragraph after paragraph, and each time he finished one, he felt something dying in him. Assuredly, he had never pretended to be a saint...but the things he learned gave him the urge to vomit.

Many events which had been curious at first sight were now explained in all their horrible reality. Corruption with sums so big the numbers of zeroes were obscene. Scandals and political betrayals were played in the shadows when men on the streets died every day by lack of equipment. The madness of the King was evident, but his administration had done its best to isolate it and tell the smallfolk to ignore what they couldn't hide.

In the next minute, every Goldcloak who wasn't illiterate was reading the holo-newspaper and those who couldn't were given large vocal extracts by their comrades.

But the final atomic strike on the capital was the name of the person who was revealing all of this. Because ultimately, information like this depended on your sources and your credibility all over the planet. You could pretend the King loved to fuck his sons and go into whorehouses to require their advice in matters of the realm, but if you were a former Captain of the Goldcloaks, no one was going to take you seriously after a few minutes.

Unfortunately, the last article killed the idea this was just a gigantic bad joke.

 _I thought the Seven Sectors were worth saving. I thought that if I made enough efforts and fought the corruption and the inter-faction quarrels with every inch of my abilities, the realm would be able to thrive._

 _I was wrong._

 _In the last decade, every hope of reform, justice, economic improvement and tolerance has died on the table of the Royal Council and the last shreds of guidance were mercilessly crushed by the King and the Lords he call his friends._

 _It is not pessimism to say the Seven Sectors and King's Landing have utterly failed in upholding the ideals Aegon the Conqueror wanted for Westeros._

 _You were promised prosperity, order, less taxes and no more conscription. Like his father, the Mad King sitting on his throne of bones has failed at every turn to give them to you._

 _I can't continue to serve a regime which cares nothing about the well-being of its subjects and don't hesitate to drown entire planets into nightmares when they deliver insults, lies and humiliations to their loyal servants._

 _In this paper, I, Lord Varys Tivario, announce my official resignation of the positions of Master of Whisperers and Head of the Crown Intelligence Agency. I will no longer protect and support the vile rule of King Rhaegar Targaryen. I will not help the Secret Police and the Lords track thousands of rebels they want to imprison for their aristocratic and spiteful motives._

 _Serve the red dragon until it dies in the inferno of war or not, I don't care._

 _But remember that sooner or later, the madman on the throne will try to resort to desperate measures in fire and blood._

 _The Spider_

Janos finished his lecture first but he only preceded the first exclamations of his men by fifteen seconds.

"The monster!"

"Now that is a resignation! Take that Mad King!"

"There is nothing to save in these highborn! We must get rid of them!"

"My father fought on the wrong side of the Usurper's Rebellion!"

"Who are they to take our money and spend it on their ugly palaces?"

But these grumbles, rebellious speeches and angry questions were nothing compared to the hateful screams he now could hear outside, as the Lieutenant had not closed to the doors.

"RISE PEOPLE OF KING'S LANDING! THE SPARROWS ARE HERE! REMOVE THE MAD KING!"

Janos watched his men. Several looked excited, but the majority were grim, understanding that today, being a Goldcloak was not the best career move they could choose.

"Men of the City Watch, as your commanding officer I think we need to reconsider our allegiance oaths..."

* * *

 **Ser Gerion Lannister, 03.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

Gerion had seen the Doom of Valyria with his own eyes. This was not him boasting, just a fact. After watching Pyke fall in orgy of slaughter from orbit, after demons and mad fire priests, it was difficult for him to be surprised at the stupidity of humanity and the horrors living in the darkness of this galaxy.

King's Landing, unfortunately, was still achieving that feat single-handedly. He had been absent one decade, but the day he came back, the capital was decided to welcome him with a mini civil-war. And his family wondered why he felt the need to joke at every possible moment?

"Give me a short summary of the situation in the system," by the Father, Gerion really hoped his lassitude was not evident. "It looks like prostitutes in a whorehouse are doing a good job compared to the King and his lackeys."

"The situation is...confusing, my Lord," began a young blonde warrant officer who seemed awfully young for his job. It made him wonder who the poor lad had slept with to be sent to the Crown Sector in such dangerous times. "The Master of Ships is in a coma and unable to give his commands. As a result, every Admiral present at King's Landing has taken upon himself to give orders..."

The chaos all over the planet and the moons gave a good idea how well this entire endeavour worked. Everywhere in the range of the light cruiser's sensors, there were scouts, merchant ships, foundry ships, cruisers and ships of the line manoeuvring, turning, arresting civilian transports and broadcasting their ignorance on the most common frequencies. The only good news was that, unlike on the planet, nobody had begun shooting.

Yet.

"You told me the Master of Ships is comatose," Gerion spoke after a moment to observe three heavy cruisers surround what looked to be civilian habitats in a threatening formation. "Where are the other imbeciles of the Council?"

There had to be someone in the capital who could stop this crisis before the storm of violence went utterly uncontrollable. Already the feeds from the holo-news described several sectors of the planet erupting in massive riots, unless they were the start of full-blow insurrections. To date, several regiments of Goldcloaks had turned against the Crown, there were new religious fanatics of the Faith and the red demonic worshippers fighting against each other and crowds mustered, angered by the revelations of a fucking newspaper.

"Well my Lord, given the actions of Lord Varys, I fear the Master of Whisperers and the entire Crown Intelligence Agency are entirely compromised. The Masters of Coin, the Master of Laws, the Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks and the Hand of the King have been killed in the last ten hours. The Master of Arms was killed yesterday. The Master of Information has departed for a familial matter in the Vale Sector. The Grand Master is...deathly ill. The Gold Fists are unable to locate the Chief of the Secret Police and the Master of Assassins. There is no High Septon anymore..."

"This makes me think about a story I heard eighteen years ago;" Gerion murmured. "Rhaegar Targaryen, Mace Tyrell and Tywin Lannister enter the same palace..."

The end of the joke had deeply amused him, but it was not exciting when you saw the story end in fire and blood. And that raised the question in turn...

"Where is the King? Rhaegar is the supreme commander of King's Landing! It should be him directing the fleet and the rest of the armed forces. Why is he not intervening?"

Most of the Lannister officers – those who had not been with him on his long journey - looked extremely uncomfortable after his questions.

"It has been years the King has not spoken in public, my Lord...ah, it is Ser Barristan, the Bold Knight, directing the defence and-"

"I know who Ser Barristan Selmy is Sergeant," Gerion replied testily.

"Yes, my Lord," several men nodded vigorously. Perhaps it was in fear he was going to banish them or demote them. Tywin's will to impose respect and fear had clearly not diminished over the years.

"The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms is ignoring the entire galaxy and orders his Kingsguard to turn away the people seeking his help and his guidance," Gerion shook his head in denegation. Getting rid of Aerys had not given Westeros a better ruler, it seemed. "Unbelievable."

There was going to be hell to pay for this. In fact, with the Small Council dead and the revelations of Rhaegar's vices and abuses of power done in his name, it was entirely possible the civil war everyone had feared before the Greyjoy Rebellion had just begun. Dorne, by all accounts, was already screaming for war. Gerion could name a dozen planets chaffing under the dragon's rule which were going to jump at the chance of taking their warships and their armies in rebellion...

"Have all the orders of my Lord Brother and Prince Joffrey been executed?" He already knew the answer; else they would not have stayed in orbit, increasing the chance of attracting the attention of the suspicious fleet personnel.

"All except one, my Lord," this time the reply was nervous, no doubt about it. "We were ordered to evacuate the young sister and brother of our gracious Prince, their possessions have been loaded aboard but there is a small problem..."

Gerion knew this was going to be bad. There were more than fifty Lannister veterans left on the planet; and they were led by a killer his survivors had personally nicknamed 'the Hound'. And yes, he was the young brother of the 'Beast'.

"What sort of problem?"

The answer was indeed bad.

"For a reason escaping us, the Lord Commander changed the assignments of his white swords. There was a good chance Ser Arys Oakheart would let us take Princess Shiera and Prince Daeron away, especially as his support is less than twenty men strong. But this morning Oswell Whent has replaced him, and he had over fifty guards with him when he escorted Princess Shiera out of the Red Keep..."

Gerion grimaced in realisation. Dealing with a young Kingsguard cut off from his hierarchy was feasible. Arys Oakheart had a reputation with the blade, but he was not a monster of battle and war. Oswell Whent was a different story. Gerion had seen one of his duels before the Greyjoy Rebellion and frankly, he didn't fancy his chances against this Kingsguard, even with Brightroar to narrow the gap. A Kingsguard was equipped with Terminator suit, and his own battle-armour had been ruined by their narrow escape in the Doom.

Sandor Clegane may be able to kill the Black Bat. But it was entirely possible Oswell Whent would kill him too. Clegane was all brutality, if his reputation was any judge, and he wasn't equipped with Terminator armour...

Gerion sighed. He was trying to avoid about the simplest solution, but there was really not any other options. Shiera and Daeron were not going to stay outside the walls of the Red Keep for hours, especially with all the agitation provoked by the revelations of the Master of Whisperers. In fact, it was surprising Whent had not ordered a retreat the moment the holo-newspapers were spread.

"Colonel Sarring?" He turned his head to speak to the warrior in ruined red armour which was leaning against the wall. "I would consider it a favour if you could descend to King's Landing and bring back my grandniece and my grandnephew..."

* * *

 **Princess Shiera Targaryen, 03.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

Shiera was running. She was pushing Daeron before her, urging her little brother to run faster. She had managed to distract their escort sufficient long at the last shop, but it was only giving her a few minutes. The guards sent with her were morons, but they were going to notice sooner or later she was taking too long in the fitting room. And there were still two long streets before the agreed meeting point.

"She's here!"

One look behind her and her heart beat faster as she saw a column of dragon helms in red and black running behind her, preceded by a massive silhouette in shining white. Shiera ran faster, taking the hand of Daeron and praying someone, anyone was going to intervene.

But there were not in the main streets where the angry crowds of King's Landing screamed their hate of her family. There were hundreds of people, but everywhere her eyes saw, she was met by gaunt and scared faces. The clothes these smallfolk were of poor quality and by the traits on their faces, their life had not been as pleasant as her years in the Red Keep.

 _And my tutors pretended we were loved by the common people_.

After two more minutes, she stopped running. Her brother was unable to continue the race, and her 'guardians' had caught up with her.

"The King is not going to be pleased by your decision, Princess," that was a massive understatement if there was ever one. "I think you can expect all your privileges to be rescinded by tomorrow morning..."

"Oh shut up, Ser Whent," whatever was going to happen to her, Shiera was a Lannister in blood and soul. She was not going to fall on her knees and demand the Kingsguard to be merciful. She was not going to waste her saliva changing the mind of someone who had decided his vows were the most important thing of the galaxy.

Apparently, given the deep silence, her entire escort was shocked by her words. Why? Did these cretins think she was going to give them thanks?

"The King is finished. Do you hear the mobs in the distance?" Despite their armours, the exclamations of hate had to be noticeable. "My genitor has lost his Small Council and is busy losing control of the capital." How to make it clear for these die-hard Targaryen loyalists? After a second of hesitation, she decided to speak him to him like one spoke to a toddler. "His. Reign. Is. Over."

"If you denounce His Grace, House Lannister will pay the price," Shiera narrowed her eyes at the not-so-veiled threat.

"You speak like the Crown Prince didn't plan to wage war against the West the moment he could get away with it. You speak like this madman loved anything but prophecies. You speak like he had not imprisoned our mother in the Maidenvault for a decade."

"ENOUGH!" the outburst of Whent was so powerful it made her jump on her feet. But seconds after, she felt amusement. In the end, there was something human in the Kingsguard. The Black Bat was a Loyalist to the bone, but he wasn't completely stupid. He knew the Seven Sectors were in turmoil. "Your treacherous affirmations will be reported to the court! Now we will escort you to the Red Keep or must I order a guard to tie you up and a prison air-car?"

There was a powerful bang and suddenly one of the guards' head vanished in a bloody explosion.

 _He should have worn his helmet_ , was the only thought which came to Shiera's mind.

"What is this treachery?" Oswell Whent's voice was as powerful as ever, but the Targaryen Princess heard something different in it. Fear.

In the street, the Kingslanders who had closed to listen to this scene now withdrew in a hurry. By several streets, dozens of familiar red battle-armours were running. Her Lannister protectors had arrived, at long last. Leading them was an ugly face Shiera had never thought she would be happy to see one day.

"Whent, funny to meet you there," growled Sandor Clegane, the Hound. "I thought you had your head so far in the King's ass you hadn't the time to kill defenceless and children anymore..."

The white sword of the Kingsguard went so far out of its scabbard that for her, it was like a blur.

"The Princess comes with me with the Red Keep! If you try to stop me..."

"FIRE!"

Like a single man, the Lannister soldiers discharged their laser riffles in the waiting ranks of the Targaryen guards. Many red-black dragon helms felled in this first volley and then new Lannister armours came behind them, blades ready for a duel at close-quarters.

This was not like the parade duels or even the field exercises she had watched last month at Camp Daeron. Under her eyes, the Lannister and Targaryen guards were battling each other, and human blood began soaking the ground.

"Princess we must go!" The Hound pressed her.

"Carry Daeron! He is too tired to run!"

But as she began to turn away, Shiera could not stop to send a last look at the fight. The Targaryen escort was decimated and by now only Oswell Whent was fighting a Lannister soldier in tarnished red armour. And the Kingsguard, impossibly, was losing his duel.

"The Lieutenant has always been better than me..." Shiera was sure Sandor had murmured this admission for himself.

The Lannister soldiers made no move to interfere as their last opponents were killed. Anyway, the parries and the counter-parries were so fast it was somewhat hypnotic. And then the Kingsguard of her genitor made a mistake.

In the blink of an eye, his sword arm was removed. Amazed, the Princess observed the black blade begin a new attack.

 _It's Valyrian steel. It has to be. Nothing else can shred Terminator armours like they don't exist_.

Oswell Whent tried to grapple his opponent in a desperate move...but the black sword caught him right between the eyes and perforated his skull like the helmet wasn't there.

"So ends Ser Oswell Whent, Black Bat of Harrenhal, Servant of a Mad King..." commented Shiera Targaryen before letting a Lannister guard carry her away.

* * *

 **Prince Viserys Targaryen, 03.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

The light on the main tactical display of his flagship was so tiny in the middle of ten thousand similar dots everyone would have missed it. Fortunately, he had a competent crew and the Western warship was now a lone red light in an ocean of blue, green and gold.

"My Lord, the ship is departing for the Bywater jump point," said one of his Captains.

"Let them go," there was no hesitation in Viserys' voice. The Admiral of Dragonstone had known the Lannisters would try to evacuate Princess Shiera and Prince Daeron from King's Landing. Rescuing Cersei Lannister was of course impossible, since the Queen was a prisoner in the Maidenvault, but her young children had had far more freedom of movement. They were in contact with officers able to command or divert warships too.

So no, seeing them escape from King's Landing was anything but a surprise. Though he had to admit the return of a Lannister thought lost in the depths of the void had not figured in his plans. And like the Westerners themselves, he had no idea Rhaegar at the last moment was going to replace Ser Arys Oakheart by Ser Oswell Whent.

Had Rhaegar known the storm was coming today or was it one more lunacy of a man plunged into weird prophecies when the rest of the galaxy had to deal with the harsh reality? Viserys didn't know and to be honest, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

But like many prophetic plans, King Rhaegar Targaryen had screwed up. A Kingsguard had died and the children escaped. Now it was him who had to deal with this disaster.

"Let them go," the Targaryen Prince repeated. "They have won their liberty and we are too far to intercept them."

It was not completely exact, of course. His ships of the line were more than four hours away from King's Landing, and by the time he reached the light cruiser's current position, the smaller warship would have gained several hundred thousand kilometres thanks to its superior acceleration and speed. But there were other options. Viserys could have released his scout cruisers from their escort duties and ordered them to pursue the Lannister ship. They wouldn't have caught them in the King's Landing System but there was a lot of distance to cover before the frontiers of the Western Sector.

Or he could have commanded one of the capital's flotillas of light cruisers to rush in the River Sector and ambush them there.

But what good would it do? Prince Joffrey was not aboard this ship. By his best estimates and those of his analysts, the grandson of Lord Tywin Lannister had to be in the Golden Tooth System right now or so close to it no force loyal to him could catch up with him without rousing the lion's fury.

And if he, Prince Viserys of House Targaryen, didn't bring the Lannister claimant in chains to imprison him in a secure cell then stopping his younger siblings meant nothing.

Nothing.

Besides, taking hostages was a Targaryen tactic which worked...badly these days. Maybe it was because said hostages were returning brainwashed young adults or smoking corpses at home.

"You are not serious!" the tone of the political officer his brother had assigned him clacked like an insult in the silence of the bridge. Viserys didn't know his name, and he didn't feel guilty to not take the time to learn it. This was the...eighth imbecile they had sent to spy on him. After the 'tragic accidents' –one of them which had seen the third appointee ejected alive out of an airlock – and the 'honour duels' where the first seven men had lost their lives, he had hoped the Small Council or his brother gain some wisdom and stop sending him ignorant people he couldn't stand.

Obviously, this hope had perished under armoured boots.

"The King has given you an order, Prince Viserys!" there was no dribble on the lips of the Targaryen Knight, but give it a few minutes and there was a one hundred percent likelihood it was going to appear. "The Prince and the Princess must not escape! If you can't capture them, destroy their ship!"

"You would destroy their ship?" exclaimed in horror a Lieutenant Commander.

Similar faces of shock were seen all over the bridge and Viserys gave a nod to his sworn swords to be ready.

Capturing Tywin's brother and two of his grandchildren would be bad. The Master of Casterly Rock remembered every grudge and insult, and Viserys preferred his name wasn't mentioned when the time to send the assassins and kill-teams came. Viserys wanted to take the throne and reign upon the reformed Seven Sectors of Westeros, not create more enmities and feuds.

Killing them however was an awful idea and not just because it guaranteed Tywin would come with blood in the eyes. Viserys didn't want worlds to burn and his faction to be vaporised in nuclear holocausts because he had obeyed an imbecilic order.

"And what will you suggest, when Lord Tywin will demand our heads and those of our entire families for this deed, Ser?" Viserys forced himself to ask in a reasonable tone.

"Who cares about Lord Tywin demands?" was the moronic answer he received. "The West will obey the will of the Iron Throne or they will be crushed!"

The Admiral of Dragonstone didn't need the confirmation, but it was nice to see the man in front of him was indeed the epitome of the brain-dead officers they promoted after a couple of years rewiring their minds.

"In case it escaped your attention, Ser, we are already at war with Dorne and our entire leadership has just imploded. Worse, hundreds of black-ops and an entire generation of...regrettable acts had been revealed to the capital's population. Adding the Western Sector to our list of enemies does not sound like an intelligent decision."

"It will teach them a lesson!"

"Did your mother gave you arsenic at puberty or were you mentally deficient before?" Viserys was done playing nice. "Prince Joffrey is out of our reach and is likely days away to be proclaimed King! Do you want to kill his younger brother and sister and give him another reason to hate us?"

"But...the King's orders..." There were a few similarities between the fishes presented on Narrow Void's banners and the man wide-opened mouth.

"Rhaegar Targaryen and his orders can go to the Seven Hells," he proclaimed loudly. The instant it left his lips, it felt very good and like someone had removed chains from his muscles. "My orders stand and I say the most important duty we have today is to restore order in the capital system while my brother can't be bothered to lift an eyebrow."

"Treachery..." This was the last word of the political officer as ten guns were pointed on him and his chest received many holes which were fatal for any non-armoured human.

"Tell Vice-Admiral Celtigar our coup has just been advanced by a month," Viserys told his communications officer. The Lord of Claw Isle had arrived two days before him and evidently had not been involved in the planning session he had done with his main officers now. "It's time we stop Varys' parting gift...and there's a crown to be seized."

"Yes, your Grace!"

* * *

" _We forgot that after midnight, the true nightmare can start_..." attributed to Ser Willas Tyrell, 300AAC.

 **From: Agent HQ-4963127-RLD-1111 'Storm Dancer', Nightsong deployment**

 **To: Kingsgrave High Command**

 **Priority: Crimson**

 _My Lord,_

 _I can confirm a sizeable percentage of Caron capital warships have left the Nightsong System for an undetermined period. The reason of this withdrawal seems to be linked with the new war game Lord Paramount Jon Connington intends to play in the Fawnton System. The direct result of this strategic change is obviously the over-reliance of the local forces on their orbital fortresses and minefields. The Nightsong Defence Fleet has been restructured in a new formation, officially called 'Storm Task Force 24'. Warships built and crew by House Selmy and House Wagstaff have been noticed participating in its manoeuvres. The Masterly House of Nightingale and the Knightly Houses Battlesong, Hillstriker and Westmarcher have officers aboard these warships. The commander of this space force is Lord Caron's bastard brother, Ser Rolland Storm. Below is the order of battle currently at his disposition:_

 _Storm Task Force 24:_

 _1 ship of the line:_

 _1 Loyalty's Reward-class: Renown (Vice-Admiral Ser Rolland Storm flagship)_

 _4 Battlecruisers (reinforced by one battlecruiser of House Wagstaff):_

 _1 Fall of Pyke-class:_ _Battle of Lordsport_ _(Rear-Admiral Ser Durwald Battlesong)_

 _2 Warhammer-class:_ _Iron Hammer_ _(Rear-Admiral Ser Manfred Westmarcher), Burning Anvil (Rear-Admiral Lord Pearse Wagstaff flagship)_

 _1 Battlestorm-class: Redgrass Field (Rear-Admiral Stevron Nightingale flagship)_

 _4 Heavy cruisers (reinforced by two heavy cruisers of House Wagstaff):_

 _3 Nightsong-class: Nightsong (Squadron Commander Ser Jasper Hillstriker flagship), Marcher Defiance, Honour (Squadron Commander Baelor Carer flagship)_

 _1 Purple Lightning-class: Victorious Lightning (Squadron Commander Renly Marter flagship)_

 _4 Light cruisers (reinforced by two light cruisers of House Selmy):_

 _1 Stone Guard-class_

 _1 Rainy Days-class_

 _2 Green Moon-class_

 _12 Scout cruisers (reinforced by three scout cruisers of House Selmy):_

 _4 Black Butterfly-class_

 _4 Wooden Ambush-class_

 _2 Griffin's Charge-class_

 _2 Jewel of the Storm-class_

 _2 Frigates:_

 _2 Snake Killer-class_

 _10 Light carriers:_

 _10 Vulture Hunters-class_

 _2 Escort carriers (reinforced by one carrier of House Wagstaff):_

 _2 Red Lips-class_

 _1250 Starfighters (reinforced by twenty starfighters of House Wagstaff):_

 _900 White Griffin_

 _350 Stormshadow_

 _I remain Her Majesty's humble servant,_

 _Agent Storm Dancer_

* * *

 **Vice-Admiral Ser Rolland Storm, 04.09.300AAC, Nightsong System**

Rolland was busy reprimanding one of his staff ensigns for his sub-par work when the alarms began to blare in a strident litany of doom. And this time, it was by the Warrior not a security exercise. He should know: it was he who had overseen the last ten alerts. The perks of being a superior officer and interested in the survival of his men had given him this charge.

But the fact remained it wasn't an evacuation exercise. And if it wasn't, there was only one other alternative. An attack was under way.

"To battle-stations!" he shouted, trying not to wince as several of his men looked at him like he had spoken in High Valyrian and were trying to figure if he was joking or not. It took several more orders and screams to begin the slow rally which should have begun minutes ago.

The Vice-Admiral of the 24th Storm Task Force had consequently long seconds to feel uneasy at the proof of how inexperienced his men were. It shouldn't have been like this. The Nightsong forces had long boasted they were the elite of the Marches, the shield protecting the rest of the Storm Sector from the treacherous Dornish and their fellow Reach Marchers. But as Bryce had allied with Lord Connington, the training for the new recruits had changed. The classes for warrant officers and newly-graduated officers had experienced many reforms – and not for the better in his opinion.

Where the Noble House of Nightsong had prided itself to promote talent and skill no matter the circumstances of your birth years ago, it was no longer the case. Loyalty to the Lord Paramount and the Iron Throne, discipline and blue-blooded lineage were now the key words.

Rolland had faced considerable difficulties since he had taken command of this new Task Force...and he had a dreadful guess his problems were just about to begin. It may have something to do with the numerous dots emerging from the jump point connecting the Nightsong and Sandy Hull Systems.

"The six forts of the first line have been destroyed, Admiral!" Rolland nodded imperturbably. He had tried to convince the high authorities a close-defence of the jump point was a suicidal task, but they had not listened to him. Well, now the result was the annihilation of this force and by the lack of debris and the facility the enemy force burned through his minefields, the forts' crews had not killed a single ship. This was what happened when you insisted the men stayed vigilant all the time: as weeks and years passed without incident, they were getting bored and their reaction times were atrociously low.

And as there were on average two thousand men on said orbital unmoving constructions, this meant about twelve thousand Stormlanders had died by the time the light and the explosions of the engagement arrived to him. It would have been nice if these were the only losses he was about to take...but unfortunately it didn't look like the enemy was going to stay idle today.

"Station S-29 reports one battlecruiser, two heavy cruisers, five light carriers and about eighty units which might be light cruisers, scout cruisers or escort carriers," announced his tactical officer after a brief discussion with his assistants. "They appear to be accompanied by about thirty transports, ammunition and support ships."

The latter were staying around the jump point, though. These were not warships and had nothing to do in a real space battle.

"This is probably the vanguard of a much larger fleet," he spoke to his staff. "They have no capital warships save one battlecruiser. They will have to rely on their speed against our defences."

They probably had the acceleration needed for it, alas. Rolland was ready to bet a lot of these light units his sensors couldn't identify were escort carriers. This meant he was going to be the first Westerosi Admiral in two decades to see in action the result of the Dornish Research and Development programs.

Something told him the pilots aboard his carriers were not going to thank him for the experience.

"Distance between the enemy and our Task Force: about eight million kilometres," this didn't raise an eyebrow from him: he had positioned his forces at mid-distance between the jump point and the planet where he was born. "The enemy has taken a course to strike our foundries and extraction industry in the outer belts."

Rolland swore silently. Now he had to make a choice between engaging the Dornish fleet directly or stay where he was to cover the planet. In appearance, the choice was simple: the shipyards around Nightsong Prime were infinitely more valuable than the industry spreading in the asteroid belts.

But the orders Lord Bryce had tied him with were clear: he had to engage the enemy aggressively and minimise to the highest degree the damage House Caron's possessions were going to take. And unfortunately, this translated in abandoning the idea of hiding behind the one hundred-plus orbital forts of Nightsong Prime and attacking rapidly the enemy.

The idea that it was precisely what the enemy wanted him to do didn't fill him with optimism.

"Plot a course to intercept them on a 3-2-6 bearing," the Storm Vice-Admiral commanded. "And put me in communication with the other senior commanders."

One by one, the holographic images of Rear-Admirals and Senior Squadron Commanders materialised. By a monumental effort of will, Rolland Storm didn't scowl. If he had the choice, none of these men would be above Lieutenant in rank and their specialty would be to bring him his morning drinks, not deciding the fate of a battle. They were too young for their ranks...and worse for all, Rear-Admiral Pearse Wagstaff outranked him in status for he was Lord Wagstaff and the Head of a Noble House.

"It seems the Dornish have decided they want a good-old war," he began, receiving polite nods in return. "Since they have sent a message with the destruction of our fortresses," at this Ser Durwald had the admirable reaction to look sheepish, "I propose we sent back one with the destruction of their raiding force. Ser Stevron, given your experience and your flagship modifications, you will have command of our starfighters for this battle."

Rolland didn't like it, but the black-haired Knight of House Nightingale was the only one to have the rank of Rear-Admiral and experience in fighter operations. And all the other candidates were worse, frankly.

"Yes, Admiral!"

"The fleet is to accelerate to seventy percent of its maximum speed and prepare for Plan Fire Avenger," he added and refused to sigh as the frowns appeared on his subordinates' visages. Seriously, what did they expect? He wasn't going to charge headlong in what might be a massive trap!

"Ser Manfred, detach your Snake Killer-class frigates on a course to the Harvest Hall jump point. Dorne has opened the hostilities, and I think we can all agree our Lord's fleet will be more urgently needed here than at Fawnton."

The Rear-Admirals and the Squadron Commanders saluted before ending the communication. Rolland exhaled a loud breath of relief...although in hindsight, the lack of protestations couldn't be interpreted as a good sign. The young fools were certainly sharpening the blades to stab him in the back.

Returning to the main tactical display, Rolland circled around it, forsaking his seat and trying not to curse at the lack of useful information. Reach and Storm spies' reports had been granted to him, but the information they gave was more of a political nature, with disposition of bases and economic considerations added in the mix. There were damn few warships on the enemy order of battle he could recognise. The five light carriers were all of the Displeasure class and the heavy cruisers appeared to be built according to the template of the Great Scorpion-class or something like this. But he had precious information on their capabilities and their armaments. And he ignored everything about the starfighters he was about to face, and those had always been the Dornish's specialty.

"Are they more units transiting from the jump point?" He asked to the officer keeping watch of this part of the system.

"No my Lord, the transports and the supply ships are staying in formation around it and no new units have emerged since twenty-six minutes."

Well at least it confirmed this was a raiding force. More likely someone on the other side had decided to probe the defences for several hours and see what sort of counter-attack the Storm and the Reach Sector could muster.

If it was the case, they were going to be disappointed. Storm Task Force 24 was everything the Marches had available to repulse this attack. Lord Dondarrion had made clear his mobile units would not leave his system and Lord Selmy had loudly affirmed the warships he had sent were all Nightsong would ever receive if his taxes didn't decrease.

Task Force 24 stood alone.

"Ser Stevron has order the starfighters to launch!"

Despite his attempts at self-control, Rolland gritted his teeth in frustration. The Nightingale Rear-Admiral had launched far too early. They were over one million and a half kilometres away from the enemy formation, which meant they were going to be out of the battle-line's support. But he had given command to Ser Stevron and changing it in the course of the battle was not advised for the morale of his men. He could repeat this in his head several times, but the urge to relieve him didn't diminish.

Especially as his fighter commander had sent a far larger proportion of his starfighters than he was comfortable. Nine hundred of the White Griffins and three hundred Stormshadows pushed their engines at eighty-five percent of their top-capacity, leaving only fifty Stormshadows to act as an anti-fighter escort. The enemy's answer was not long in coming.

"Enemy fighters are launching, Admiral. It looks forty of their lighter units are escort carriers, after all." It brought some measure of comfort to the bastard of Nightsong that his staff looked confident, for once. "The Dornish starfighters are all of a new class not figuring in our data bases, Admiral. They are around one thousand and a hundred of them."

"They do not have extremely light emissions, lighter than the Death Vipers they used the Usurper's Rebellion, Admiral," oh this was just splendid, "it is going to be difficult for our heavy units to fix their lasers on them."

Just for this, Rolland was in mind to recall the fighters...but he couldn't. As valuable as his Task Force was, it was nothing compared to the warships mustered at Fawnton. And if the core of the Storm Sector ships of the line engaged the enemy without having a clue on their enemies' capabilities...

Meagre consolation, he had a small numerical advantage, one thousand and two hundred against one thousand and one hundred. It was less than the pre-282AAC doctrine cautioned to engage a Dornish enemy force but...

"Enemy missile launch! Enemy missile launch! Acceleration...oh Sweet Mother!"

Rolland looked at the numbers on the tactical display and froze. The Dornish had launched just outside his starfighters' range...and the acceleration of their missiles was just...insane. It was over one hundred and sixty percent faster in acceleration than the fastest Storm missile...and it was going to reach his pilots in about fifteen seconds.

Rolland closed his eyes. Starfighter pilots boasted often of incredible deeds, but this time their chances didn't look good. Each Dornish starfighter had fired three missiles, creating a storm of death three thousand and three hundred strong. The White Griffins and the Stormshadows had no choice but to launch their own missiles at extreme range and engage their own counter-measures. And since they had been launched too early, his ship of the line and his battlecruisers could not support them.

The Vice-Admiral opened his eyes again and saw a nova of destruction engulf his fighter force.

"Forget Avenger, prepare Fire Plan Death Shield..."

* * *

 **Commander of Ten Thousand Lady Jennelyn Fowler, 04.09.300AAC, Nightsong System**

"Sis?"

"Yes, sis?"

"I may have slept a bit during our strategy classes at the Academy, but aren't new classes of starfighters and warships supposed to be better than the starships they replace?"

"Yes, they are."

Jennelyn sighed loudly, noticing several dozen men and women were listening to her mummer's performance on the bridge of the _Black Onyx_ , Sapphire Tarantula-class battlecruiser and flagship of Strike Force 68.

"Maybe we should warn the Stormlanders, then. The fighters they call 'White Griffin' are worse than the Thunderbird they fought with during the last two wars. And their 'Stormshadow' class is just slightly better than the old Sirocco."

Her twin sister gave a few more orders to her flag captain, before looking back at the information transmitted to her console.

"You should not waste your voice with them, sis. Anyone stupid enough to buy these things is not likely to listen to reason."

"I suppose you're right." Under her eyes, a pitiful amount of Storm starfighters escaped the massacre and tried to return to their carrier bays, undoubtedly in shock after the one-sided slaughter they had received. "My part in this battle is done. Do you want to let their heavy units catch up now, or should we annoy them a bit first?"

In most fleet, squadrons and organisations, Jennelyn knew it would have been unconscionable for two people of the same rank to be in charge at the same time. But Jeyne and she were the Fowler Twins, Commanders of Ten Thousand, and what didn't work in other navies was their strength. Jennelyn personally commanded the carrier/starfighter operations, and Jeyne used her talents for the battlecruisers and heavy cruisers. This was how they had always worked since they were in age to plot their strategies. And so far, they never had a reason to regret it.

"I will give them...eighteen more minutes to wallow in their self-pity and despair," decided her twin, standing up from her seat and taking a posture Arianne enjoyed to see before the love-making began. "By now they must be aware of our speed advantage and realise we let them close the distance because we wanted to. Yes, eighteen minutes should give them plenty of opportunity to see they're completely outmatched. Recall your fighters, sis. If they want to redline their reactors, I think we should let them behave like the idiots they are."

Jennelyn did exactly that, observing the graceful and perfect manoeuvre of her Silent Murder-class wing. The new class of starfighter had proven beyond doubt today the billions invested in it were money well-spent. As long as Dorne has them on the battlefield, no starfighter would ever be able to scratch the pain of their heavy units. By the Great Wyrm, they had lost four starfighters and destroyed in return one thousand one hundred and sixty-eight enemy fighters!

This was the kind of win-lost ratio which any commander dreamt about when he or she programmed a simulation.

"Remember sis, our Queen want us to capture the maximum of carriers," and no, they didn't want to use these hulls in the fires of battle. Storm carriers were notoriously too bulky, too slow and unable to sustain for more than a few minutes the acceleration of the Dornish warships. But Dorne fleets were going to need all the supply convoys they could take their hands on, and for fighter transport duties, the carriers of House Caron were good enough.

"I have not forgotten." The smile Jeyne showed bared her white teeth. "But I want to test our ion cannons and this Task Force had just volunteered to be our lab rats..."

* * *

 **Vice-Admiral Ser Rolland Storm, 04.09.300AAC, Nightsong System**

Eighty-two.

Rolland knew he had to think about something else, but the number tormented him. He had eighty-two starfighters left in his fleet as he tried to see a way to get out of this nightmare. Eighty-two pilots and eighty-two fighters were left, when an hour ago he had one thousand and two hundred-plus under his command.

By any standard, his command had just been on the receiving side of the most one-sided beating in the last hundred years – at least where starfighters were involved.

"The _Redgrass Field_ is reporting they are rearming the surviving fighters," Rolland could not stop sending an incredulous look at his Lieutenant.

"He is doing what?"

Surely even Stevron Nightingale was not that deluded. His fighters had just been annihilated for the destruction of six enemy starfighters.

"He is rearming his fighters, Admiral." No, it was not his ears which were suddenly playing games. "He says his men are ready to fight."

The Vice-Admiral laughed darkly.

"What does he think he is going to achieve? He has less than a hundred fighters left and our opponents will massacre them in another volley. Tell him to stand down and prepare the empty carriers to separate and return to Nightsong Prime. We will take a course to cover the planet and put some distance with the enemy. By this point, we can't catch up with them before they reach the outer belt..."

He waited several seconds for the acknowledgement of his orders...which never came.

"Admiral, Rear-Admiral Nightingale respectfully refuse. He says...," the Lieutenant swallowed difficultly, "he says Lord Wagstaff is giving orders befitting the traditions of the Storm Navy and your lack of fighting spirit is an offense to your Caron ancestors..."

Taking the copy of the communication and reading it, the arrogant Knight had said a lot of additional insults...which frankly were not even original. Rolland fixed the display in sorrow for several seconds, contemplating the ruin of his battle-plans.

"The battlecruisers and their escorts are ignoring our orders," informed his tactical officer with deep anger in his tone. "Our carriers and most of light units are following them too."

It was the undeniable truth. The _Redgrass Field_ , the _Iron Hammer_ , the _Burning Anvil_ and the _Battle of Lordsport_ were now charging again the enemy, and their acceleration had to be somewhere in the ninety-three percent of their maximum acceleration. In other words they were mutineers and completely stupid...

Behind them came the heavy and light cruisers. The scout cruisers surrounded the entire battle-line with the remaining starfighters. This hurt, in his chest. Of his entire Task Force, the warships which had stayed with _Renown_ , his flagship, were now consisting solely in the four Wooden Ambush-class scout cruisers.

And then as the two fleets closed with each other and extreme missile range was about to come in a few seconds, the Dornish battlecruiser fired a colossal beam of white energy at Task Force 24's pig-headed commanders.

The effect was catastrophic. The _Iron Hammer_ 's power sources instantly went out and at these speeds, when the gravity compensators failed, the result was invariably fatal. Screams of agony were heard on all frequencies and the Storm battlecruiser went out of the formation before exploding in a ball of plasma, taking with him one escort carrier and two scout cruisers.

"Their new class battlecruiser has a long-range ion cannon," he tried to articulate calmly but he growled it more than he spoke. "No wonder they tried to use a lot of electronic counter-measures to sucker us."

Most navies had dismissed this type of weapons for their warships. Ion Cannons consumed fantastic amounts of energy, and if the engineers and specialists were right, the ion weapon was about the only offensive armament you could place in the hull without meeting dangerous structural issues.

But the Dornish had apparently done it...they had built a class of battlecruisers with a long-range ion cannon and nothing else.

And he had to admit, for this battle, it worked.

The missile attack ordered by Pearse Wagstaff was useless as the enemy evaded it with extreme ease and the second ion attack pulverised the _Battle of Lordsport_. After Rear-Admiral Manfred Westmarcher, Rear-Admiral Durwald Battlesong died as his battlecruiser became a short-lived star and the heavy cruiser _Marcher Defiance_ perished with it.

It was not a battle anymore. As his ship of the line tried to rush towards Nightsong Prime, the Dornish force circled around the Storm warships like a flight of carrion birds and slaughtered them.

The _Redgrass Field_ died in the third pass, and two light cruisers vanished as they had attempted to protect the Nightingale flagship. The _Victorious Lightning_ and the _Honour_ were the victims of the fourth attack.

And finally the _Burning Anvil_ was lost with all hands in the fifth. Rear-Admiral Wagstaff was dead...and it was clear the mutineers had enough.

"Ser Jasper is offering his surrender to the Dornish commander."

"So these summer fools have not even the dignity and the courage to die for their ideals," Rolland would like to say he had only thought it, but he was human and angry. "How many units are going to be pressed into Dornish service?"

"Err... the heavy cruiser _Nightsong_ , two light cruisers, six scout cruisers, eight light carriers and one escort carrier."

Rolland Storm closed his eyes and for the first time, he knew he had completely failed. It was the greatest defeat of Nightsong in centuries and he, as the Vice-Admiral of Task Force 24, was going to be designated the architect of this fiasco. It was shameful. He had done everything he could think of to avoid it...and in the end, his best had been destroyed by his own 'allies'.

"The enemy carriers are launching again, Admiral."

The Caron bastard shook his head in despair. Of course they were. By this point, they had to know his intentions to use the _Renown_ to support the old orbital forts. And they didn't intend to let him go away with it. He could delay a full assault on the planet by weeks if he took position quickly enough...not that it was going to happen. A ship of the line was slow and zero starfighters had survived their second contact with the enemy.

A thousand Dornish starfighters spread into the void and they were too fast for his warship. No console input was required to know they weren't going to make it. Unlike the first time, the ammunition they were armed with would not be the anti-fighter strike but the massive hull-breakers used to kill capital ships. A thousand missiles for a lone ship of the line and four scout cruisers.

"What do we do, Admiral?" asked his chief of staff.

"First, we ensure all the information of the beating they have given us is recorded by our frigates, the planetary command bastions and the auxiliaries fleeing towards the other systems. The next time an Admiral thinks he can fight a Dornish fighter force with simple parity of numbers, his men have to know he is insane.

Second, you will record the names of the officers today who have mutinied against Task Force 24. I don't care their connections or their families' blood, the Storm Sector will know they have thrown their lives and their ships away for nothing.

After this...turn us around, Captain. It's time for us to die in the defence of our home."

One minute later, the _Renown_ ponderously pivoted and charged to meet the lethal cloud of fighters, the four scout cruisers of the Wooden Ambush-class on both sides giving it a last honour guard.

"Our Lords and Masters wanted a war; I fear their wishes have been fulfilled..."

* * *

 **Commander of Ten Thousand Lady Jeyne Fowler, 04.09.300AAC, Nightsong System**

Compared to the last defiance of the _Renown_ and its Admiral – which had cost them thirty nine starfighters – the defence of Nightsong was truly and utterly pathetic.

In some way, Jeyne was happy for it meant no Dornish died in vain. Neither Dorne nor House Fowler could afford catastrophic losses so early in the war.

But as a Commander of Ten Thousand, she was almost offended by the derelict state of Nightsong defences. Yes, half of their navy had been sent away on a useless war game. Yes, House Caron had known severe economic difficulties before rallying the side of their Lord Paramount.

But after all of these factors were considered, the point remained the Master of Nightsong and his bannersmen had crippled their forces and tarnished a culture of war and martial honour they had taken over two thousand years to build. A blind Lord Paramount and economic woes didn't explain everything.

"Our assassination and sabotage teams report eighty-six percent of success on the planet," she told conversationally to Jennelyn. "Our snipers got every noble they could find. The only survivors who should still breath are either our prisoners or mustered at Fawnton."

The former would not be a problem as they were going to know the joys of the life on a desert world. The latter were dead, even if they didn't realise it yet.

Another orbital fort exploded after an ion blast as she finished the sentence. It was honestly baffling, honestly. Simulations had emphasized the point mobile units were more vulnerable to ion weaponry than fixed defences...but the Storm forts were exploding every time the fire of her battlecruiser hit them.

"House Caron was not a huge family and a lot of lesser branches died during the Usurper's War," replied in the same tone her twin. "The Storm Sector should thank us. These Houses were a disgrace to their name. Caron, Nightingale, Battlesong, Hillstriker and Westmarcher are now near-extinct."

One Noble, one Masterly and three Knightly Houses were decisively crushed for their first big victory. It was not the triumph of the century, but it was a start.

"How many people are aboard these fortresses, by the way?"

"Each fort has on average between three and four thousand, the command and fire control ones have a few hundred more than the standard designs."

"And we have destroyed over sixty of them already."

Yes, they had already killed one hundred and eighty thousand men aboard these obsolete battle-stations. It was nice of the remaining Nightsong commanders to do, obviously. If the imbeciles had attempted to surrender and put the maximum of their soldiers out of uniform, they could have waged an impressive irregular war for as long Dorne occupied their planet.

But like in the space battle, the men –because women of course were barred from command, of course – seemed to have stopped thinking and embraced the guidelines dictated by brainless slugs.

"I would have liked taking their shipyards intact," Jeyne told her twin.

Alas, the moment they had finished the flagship of Task Force 24, whoever was in command of the forts had begun to blast the incomplete military hulls. In several cases, the bloodthirsty officer had not bothered evacuating the workers beforehand.

Neither Jennelyn nor Jeyne had shed a tear. More potential rebels were wiped out that way and while the defenders were hurrying to ensure the fourteen immobile ships of the line and their half-completed escorts were unusable, Dorne was grabbing over seventy civilian hulls and transports, plus the industry of the outer belt and many civilian constructions.

"This would have been too dangerous for our special forces," reminded her sister, "the women and men in them are good, but not that good. Besides, I fear what would happen if we begin to rely on these floating traps."

"Indeed," she watched the tactical display for several seconds, as the number of forts destroyed rose to seventy-three. "How much longer do you think?"

"Less than an hour, I bet," the gesture towards the blue and green orb was not nice. "I realise this planet is heavily fortified, but their command bunkers are currently filled with poison gas, their aristocracy is decapitated, their naval forces have been transformed into debris, their forts are doing nothing but providing us targets and they were already recovering from an economic crisis..."

The Nightsong System was not a great population megalopolis. Their last census had recorded a population of one billion and seventy-nine million for the entire system.

And now all their resources were going to be added to the war machine of Dorne.

All in all, it took nine more minutes for a very junior Colonel to give up and signal the formal surrender of Nightsong. In hindsight, maybe they shouldn't have killed all the flag officers...a good part of the battle had been spent by the Stormlanders searching whoever was in overall command.

"And now with Nightmare, the gates of the South are broken..."

* * *

 _Executed after Operation Midnight but before Operation Cataclysm, Operation Nightmare was long disdained by the maesters and the students of history. The reasons for this neglect are obvious, in hindsight. While the sneak attacks on the great shipyards could be explained by the Dornish perfidy and the attack on the Fawnton System can rightly be considered an act of abject betrayal, no such excuse can be found for Nightsong._

 _The System ruled by House Caron was by the voice of its inhabitants themselves the key of the Storm-held Marches. Blackhaven and House Dondarrion were a far more difficult travel to take, given its massive asteroid belts and if the Dornish Navy wanted to attack in strength, they had to conquer Nightsong._

 _But on the 04.09.300AAC, it took approximately eleven hours for the inferior Strike Force 68 to vanquish Task Force 24 and the rest of the defences built and maintained by the Lords of the Marches._

 _Materially, it is difficult to understate the scale of the defeat. Task Force 24 lost its entire wall of battle. The heaviest units were destroyed while the carriers surrendered once their plan of battle came apart. Eighty-one orbital forts around Nightsong Prime were completely destroyed, to be added to the six which had been reduced to orbital debris around the jump point. Twenty entire minefields were blown without causing a single casualty. One thousand two hundred and fifty starfighters, accompanied by an entire generation of pilots, died in the inferno._

 _The military shipyards had to be sacrificed to avoid a shameful capture. The commanders giving this order could not know it, but by destroying these fourteen ships of the line and twenty battlecruisers, they were losing the last reserve of new construction the Loyalist regime of Jon Connington counted on. To be sure there were lone units in construction in Connington or Baratheon-allied shipyards, but two days after their entry in the war, the Storm Sector was watching powerlessly as its military future was torn apart. Nothing heavier than a heavy cruiser would enter service in 300AAC, and the list of heavy warships which could be completed in 301AAC was short: two ships of the line and four battlecruisers...and it would barely compensate the losses of Operation Nightmare, the Dornish conquest of Nightsong._

 _Clearly, there was nothing good to search for in this monumental defeat. The Storm Sector had a population of twenty-eight billion before this day to prosecute the war against Dorne; the next morning it had twenty-seven, for Nightsong's one billion-plus inhabitants were no longer available. And since the civilian industry and a large part of the basic infrastructure had fallen intact, Dorne's strength increased._

 _The total casualty list, officially published by the Martell analysts three months after the battle, made for grim reading, both for the novices of the battlefield and the veterans of the previous conflicts. Vice-Admiral Rolland Storm had lost with all hands one ship of the line, four battlecruisers, three heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, six scout cruisers, two light carriers, one escort carrier, one thousand two hundred and fifty starfighters and eighty-nine orbital fortresses. In return they managed to damage a scout cruiser and kill less than fifty starfighters. And it didn't provide the entire picture, for the Dornish special forces had crippled the Nightsong High Command in their planetary bunkers and redoubts. Over eighteen thousand people had died in gas attacks or sniper fire and sixteen hundred were on the wrong end of sabotaged equipment._

 _Nightsong and House Caron had three hundred and forty-six thousand people dead. More than seven hundred thousand people were wounded and tens of thousands would stay crippled for the rest of their lives, for nothing in the Dornish or Stormlander medical services had been built to handle an ocean of casualties like this one. One million seven hundred and seventy-nine thousand soldiers were prisoners of war. As the women were forbidden to serve in the military forces of the Storm Sector and eighty-nine percent of the casualties were military, Operation Nightmare struck the young men between eighteen and thirty name days, and it was no exaggeration to say after this battle, the mourning planet had lost another generation, right after their heavy losses of the rebellion where they had followed Robert Baratheon._

 _If Cataclysm had not been in the wings, it is quite likely Lord Paramount Jon Connington and his allies would have lost their privileges if not their lives for this gross incompetence. The Storm Sector was wide open to Dornish attacks, and Harvest Hall and Wagstaff's March commanders found themselves on the frontlines as they tried to marshal their armies and warships._

 _The plan followed by the Dornish forces was working...and after midnight and the nightmare, the darkness came._

Extract from A Broken Realm, unknown author, 358AAC.

* * *

 _Behemoth._

 _An ugly name but it described a terrifying war threat._

 _The name, according to the legend, came from a dragon unable to fly anymore after a battle. Unwilling to kill one of their own priceless assets while the beast drew breath, the Valyrians used it as a land-based weapon they transported from planet to planet in order for the no-longer aerial reptile to continue incinerating citadels and armies._

 _Centuries later, it led to the creation of the colossal walkers of the dragon lords, able to crush entire armoured corps like a man can crush ants. And when Aegon the Conqueror invaded Westeros, it was the turn of the Seven Sectors to realise how outmatched they were. Dragons dominated everything but they could not be everywhere at once; the dozen-plus Behemoths engaged in this unification of realms proved an adequate substitute._

 _It went without saying that the Targaryens heavily regulated its use. While some loyal Noble Houses were granted the gigantic-sized walkers, the maintenance stayed a Targaryen privilege and the blueprints were hidden in some obscure vaults somewhere at King's Landing or Dragonstone. Behemoths were priceless machines and it would not do for lesser Houses to discover their threats and their weaknesses._

 _In hindsight, the first Targaryen sovereigns shouldn't have taken so many precautions. It was their family who destroyed the reputation of Behemoth invincibility in the Dance of Dragons. It was a bit hard to feel in awe after all when several planets hosted the carcasses of the metal giants._

 _After these dark years, many powerful factions like House Stark and House Lannister never manifested anymore the desire to acquire one. Why should they? Transporting a Behemoth to the battlefield required an intensive supply chain and specialised mega-cargo haulers. It also gave you Targaryen spies in your home system and diverted money away from important weapon projects. Behemoths were useful, but for the price of one you could recruit, train and deploy an army elsewhere. To impress your neighbour, the Behemoth won. Tactically and strategically, armies were far more versatile. Unless you made the mistake of Redgrass Field to concentrate the core of your forces on a single battlefield, Behemoths arrived most of the time too late to intercept motorised columns._

 _That said, once they were on the ground and walking towards the enemy, only extremely powerful orbital strikes were really able to stop one of these skyscraper-sized machines. The enemies of the Behemoths were folly, arrogance, orbital strike and others of its kind._

 _They were fifty-eight of them in the Seven Sectors when the first shots of the War of the Ten Warlords were fired._

 _Forty-two were commanded by the Crown Sector; forty-one by House Targaryen and one by House Velaryon._

 _But like on an endless variety of topics, House Targaryen had ignored its own doctrine and dispersed this considerable amount of firepower. Two Behemoths had gone with Crown Prince Aegon to Highgarden. Two other engines were at Fawnton, overseeing the war games of Lord Jon Connington. The Velaryon Behemoth was in the Driftmark System. And for the last decade, eight of the great and mighty machines were guarding the Dragonstone Citadel._

 _This left twenty-nine Behemoths to protect King's Landing._

 _It was a force able to wipe out armies, drown armoured divisions in an ocean of blood, extinguish the light in the eyes of millions and massacre a sizeable insurrection in a single day._

 _But the Behemoth crews had been widely ignored during the Long Peace and the loyalty of the officers could be considered highly questionable against inside threats._

 _The men were quite content to die in the name of a Targaryen...as long as it was their claimant._

 _As the first Crown warships and regiments proclaimed their allegiance to King Viserys Targaryen, Second of the Warlords, Ser Barristan Selmy ordered the fear-striking machines of Camp Daeron, Camp Conqueror and Camp Inferno to march and crush this insurrection before it became uncontrollable._

 _Spoken from the well-secured headquarters of the Red Keep, this command enraged the Behemoth commanders and convinced them King Rhaegar had to go. No one had forgotten the fiasco of Operation Downfall and the fact they had been forced to turn their weapons against the people and the institutions they were supposed to cherish, respect and defend._

 _The question, of course, was the name of the new King they would acclaim._

 _Twenty-nine Behemoths._

 _One crown._

 _Three possible claimants in Crown Prince Aegon, Prince Joffrey and Prince Viserys._

 _The next hours were named as the Behemoth's Fall. And the Behemoths clashed._

Extract from the Lies and the Vengeance, anonymous author, 320AAC.

* * *

 **Major-General Ser Justin Massey, 04.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

Truly, it was his day to shine.

Five of the commanders who were supposed to do their fucking jobs were busy fornicating in whorehouses, three had suddenly and inexplicably declared they were suffering from various debilitating illnesses and the remaining ones could not be joined by holo-comm.

With so much courage filling the hearts of High Command, it was a wonder they had won the Greyjoy Rebellion.

"Let it be noted that I am now active-commander of Camp Conqueror," Justin spoke loudly to the commanders around him on the command centre of the _Explosive Illumination_ , Behemoth of His Majesty. "Are the rest of our commanders ready?"

"They are, General. The _Field of Fire_ has some glitches in its engines, but Captain Rorn promises it will be resolved in a few minutes."

"Good."

And it was. As the cronies of the extinct Small Council deserted or ran to hide in their lairs, he was in command of the most redoubtable land force of King's Landing: ten great Behemoths with two field armies and support. All in all, he had over half a million men in command.

It was really not bad for a fourth son, whose father had told him to get out of the ancestral home and earn himself a life.

But they were not the only military forces able to intervene in the capital's struggle.

"How fare Camp Daeron and Camp Inferno?" He demanded, keeping a large smile on his visage. The situation wasn't that funny, but rule number one of the good officer demanded he kept his assurance in all circumstances.

"The situation at Inferno is...confused, General. Our allies here had not the time to convince other crew of our action necessities and I'm afraid the Lannisters bribed the crew of the _Royal Aggressor_. According to the latest reports five minutes ago, there's heavy fighting between three sides if not more."

"And Camp Daeron?"

"The followers of the Crown Prince are winning, but we are exacting a heavy price on them..."

Said like this, the list of choices was incredibly tiny.

"In this case, we will begin by defeating the supporters of Aegon the Second Unworthy," Camp Inferno would have to wait: if he divided his forces, he risked defeat in detail and wouldn't that be embarrassing to explain in his after-action report if he survived?

"We march to battle! For King Viserys, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Sectors!"

"For King Viserys!"

The sirens of the _Exemplar_ and the _Annihilation Law_ blared in acclamation and the Behemoths marched on a north-western course at full speed, ignoring most of the procedures and rules they had to respect in peace time.

Celerity was now of the essence, for Barristan Selmy had called the rest of his forces to assist him when it became clear no one was really interested in defending such a corrupt and venal administration.

For most people, this would have been the clue to stop supporting the Crown Prince too. Justin had seen seven or eight times the little shit during his time as a Major-General of the Gold Fists, and if Rhaegar was somewhere between Aenys the Weak and Aerys II the Mad, the new Aegon was taking the traits of Maegor the Cruel in arrogance and his grandfather in madness.

But the new acting-commander of Camp Daeron was Ser Jacelyn Bywater, and to call him rigid was an insult to any rigid material. The Ironhand, for he had lost one of his hands during the siege of Pyke and replaced it with a metal-coloured prosthetic, was a stern and unpleasant man. Between a wall and Ser Jacelyn, a gifted orator had better chances to convince the wall.

It took half an hour to reach the first marks indicating they were entering the megalopolis. The damage they caused to the infrastructure was important, but justified. For several kilometres away, the colossal silhouette of the _Master of Westeros_ was visible, followed by several of its brethren.

"Prepare the Volcano cannons!"

"Volcano cannons in charge, power charge completed in eight seconds!"

"Tell the _Exemplar_ , the _Annihilation Law_ and the _King of the Battlefield_ to concentrate on the _Master of Westeros_ on my order," the enemy Behemoth was the most recent and dangerous engine of Camp Daeron, and in all likelihood it was the flag-engine of Ser Jacelyn Bywater. This marked it as a prime target. "The rest of our command will engage the enemy as they stand.

"Volcano cannons ready!"

"Fire!"

"Fire!"

The air exploded in a fire storm as the bunker-sized weapons erupted in violence. Behemoths never did their live exercises here in the perimeter surrounding the capital, but here the rules had been set apart.

And three seconds later, the _Master of Westeros_ answered, striking the _Annihilation Law_ with its mighty batteries.

Massive dust clouds spiralled on the battlefield they had chosen. Several buildings fell, thousands of people ran like the Seven Hells were in pursuit, as it seemed the evacuation orders he had given had not been respected or simply ignored.

But the Behemoths charged against each other. According to his sensors, they were six enemy machines, including the now heavily damaged _Master of Westeros_ , which red frontal armour was a scarred and roasted black.

"Fire again! Finish him!" He shouted, trying to avoid a grimace as a new ray of destruction hit one of the _Annihilation Law_ 's legs and nearly tore it apart.

And then what should have been unthinkable five or four days ago happened.

The _Master of Westeros_ , one arm lost and under the constant volcano barrage of three Behemoths, blew apart.

The explosion was so loud and brilliant Massey knew at once everybody this side of the planet had to have heard it.

The rest of the battle was sheer chaos. The entire battlefield was covered in dust, burning debris and mini-explosions. Only the formidable sensors, the electronic signatures and the beacons allowed some clarity. For the rest, it was like they fought in the darkness.

It was Behemoth after Behemoth, and it was both glorious and utterly horrible. The Volcano cannons blasted away everything in their path, be it the enemy Behemoths, buildings, abandoned factories, bridges and various parts of the world infrastructure.

They were like giants crushing colony of ants in their furious battle. They were warriors on a ground they had once sworn to defend. But they fought, for a future against Rhaegar and his eldest son was no future at all.

"The fighting has stopped at Camp Inferno," informed him one of his communications operators. "Our losses have been heavy, but our allies appear to have triumphed."

"How many engines have they left?"

"Three, and only one seems to be battle-ready."

Justin preferred not to think about the butchery which was implied by these numbers. There had been nine Behemoths garrisoned at that Camp, if only three remained...

But there would be time to read the documentation later. For now, there was a battle to win: there were still two enemies on the battlefield against his eight remaining Behemoths.

There was no mercy and no demand of surrender. Slowly and methodically, they assaulted the warriors loyal to Bywater and mangled their legs, throwing the formidable engines on the ground and giving them the finishing blows. The earth shook violently for each of its death.

And finally, it was over. Justin Massey had never felt more exhausted in his life, but there was one more thing to do.

"Hail the starships in orbit. Tell him we have defeated the rebel Behemoths. King Viserys can land his Dragonstone troops to restore order in the capital city."

* * *

 **King Viserys III Targaryen, 04.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

"Major-General Justin Massey has wiped out the enemy Behemoths, your Grace," the subdued tone of General Baelor Staunton, Lord of Rook's Rest, was more eloquent than a sob to tell him how bad the casualty list was going to be.

"How many engines are left to support my claim?"

This was cold, but he could do nothing for the tens of thousands dead and wounded this gigantic battle had created less than a hundred kilometres from the core of the Seven Sectors.

"Ten, your Grace, and all of them are damaged to varying degrees."

"Understood," he replied, cursing in the privacy of his thoughts Ser Barristan Selmy. The old Kingsguard had tried to rally all his loyal walkers and as a result the Behemoths had fought their great fratricidal battle in the middle of bridges and minor cities.

The fact he could see the fire and the devastation from his position in orbit told him how hard-fought the battle had been. If he had any doubt left, the fact there had been twenty-nine Behemoths stationed in the three camps yesterday dissipated them.

But he had the loyalty of the eight crews at Dragonstone. These were eight intact crews and machines, in addition to the ten who had emerged victorious from this carnage. This should give him a formidable Behemoth superiority against any opponent, for at best Rhaegar's eldest son would have the seven Behemoths of the Reach and the two Crown engines he had taken with him.

"Lord Ardrian, report," he commanded the Vice-Admiral, who had just taken his flag aboard the Vhagar after emptying his personal weapon in the skull of the Langward Captain commanding it.

"The Noble Houses of Rykker, Thorne, Hayford, Chyttering, Brune, Pyle and Bar Emmon have rallied to us, your Grace," the old Lord Celtigar was smiling ferociously. "Many Masterly and Knightly Houses are adding their strength to our effectives as we speak. Lord Lothar Mallery is hesitating, but I think a short call from you will convince him he can swear his warships and his soldiers to your cause."

"Very good, Admiral," Viserys acknowledged the report. "Who are the nobles willing to die in the name of the Crown Prince?"

Because after the revelations spreading from the capital, there was not a chance in the Seven Hells Rhaegar would be able to hold a title more important than 'asylum inmate'.

"Houses Langward, Buckley, Cressey, Bywater, Chelsted, Velaryon and Wendwater are forming the backbone of our opposition for the moment," declared his senior naval subordinate after giving a brief look at a data-slate. "There are some smaller Houses declaring either for Prince Aegon or Prince Joffrey, but the names I've just given you are the main opponents. Of course, since they've sent the elite of their warships to the Reach Sector, we don't have a lot of difficulty purging their cronies in the capital fleet."

"Lord Bywater, his cousin Ser Jacelyn and most of their Knights were killed directly or indirectly by the Behemoth fighting," Viserys whispered to himself before adding in a louder voice. "It seems you have the situation in hand. Continue your successes, Admiral."

Lord Ardrian Celtigar saluted before cutting the conversation.

Seeing that for the first time in several hours nobody contacted him, Viserys profited from the moment of rest to ask his cook to deliver him a fast meal and a good bottle of wine. Several minutes later and a few instructions to the officers landing to restore order all around the planet, he was eating a large steak with some vegetables on a portable table installed near his tactical display.

The situation was far better than two days ago. At that date, only the stellar system of Dragonstone had been in a green halo to indicate it answered to him and not to Rhaegar. The green dragon above it – for it was his emblem – had appeared terribly alone. Now the situation was getting better. With the new declarations from the Crown Lords, some he had worked hard to rally to his cause, the Sector had many green lights, although the red representing the supporters of Rhaegar were still numerous. As he began an apple pie to finish his meal, he signalled his junior staff ten feet away to take some notes for the transmission of new orders.

"The moment the Red Keep is in our hands, several battlecruisers and heavy cruisers will have to deploy as fast they can to take advantage of our opponents' confusion. Bywater Rest and Stokeworth must surrender as soon as humanly possible."

As the Upper Kingswood and Rosby were his to command, these two systems were the keys for any enemy to come and push him out of the King's Landing System before he had any possibility to place the defences on a war footing.

"As proof of its loyalty, House Chyttering and House Bar Emmon will use any means at their disposition for the Wendwater and Stonedance Systems to swear their oaths to me."

House Massey would probably fight on his side, as he intended to promote Ser Justin to the rank of General. House Wendwater alas had considerably opened its coffers to receive Reach bribes these last years. Anything threatening their little illegal arrangements was going to be met by loud screams of refusal.

It was too bad...for them. Viserys had no intention to destroy Noble Houses every time they caused him headaches, but the Wendwater System fortifications were in a dire need to be overhauled and reinforced.

"The Dragonstone Deep Space Fleet will move to Driftmark and remove House Velaryon from power."

The decision should have pained him, but frankly most because he respected the memory of Lord Lucerys Velaryon. Monford Velaryon and the new Lord Jacaerys had proven they had blood ties but little else to link them with the man who had lost his life fighting Ironborn.

Besides, he had to neutralise the Behemoth and grab the armament programs of the system.

"And the ships of the line who have rallied to us will be sent north against the Langward System."

This way he would kill several problems in one operation. House Langward wouldn't be able to mount offensives and raids in the neighbouring systems. His recently declared allies were going to be committed totally on his side, for the members of Aegon's little circle weren't likely to forget they were homeless and destitute.

"I will expect these offensives to be concluded in a week."

A tall order, yes, but time was of the essence. Well, time always was a critical factor but in his case, more than in normal operations. As long as confusion and panic reigned, he could take the Crown Sector and build himself a power base sufficiently impressive to stop the other claimants in their tracks. If he let his local opposition muster its forces however, the war was going to drag on until the Reach Navy arrived and tore his forces apart. With this plan of battle, the systems he wouldn't be able to secure were Cressey Hall, High Chelsted, the Antlers and the Low Kingswood. Those could be ignored for a few days as they lacked powerful mobile space fleets or the capacity to complete great flotilla of scout units.

"You Grace, the Goldcloak and Gold Fists headquarters are at last declaring for you," informed him a Junior Captain.

"Good, contact the Red Keep and establish a link with Ser Barristan Selmy. Let's see if the Bold Knight is in mind to do the sensible thing for once."

* * *

 **Ser Barristan Selmy, 04.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

The great command centre should have been full of life. It had been centuries ago and constantly modernised to acknowledge and update the situation in the Seven Sectors of Westeros, command the Crown Fleets, direct the millions of men fighting under the Targaryen banners to the frontlines and thousands of duties it took too long to explain.

By a conservative estimate, over thirty thousand people could work here in war time. A short look was largely enough to realise there wasn't that many souls in the alcoves, sections and communication data-processors. All in all, there were maybe three thousand men and a couple of hundred servants.

And not all looked like they were happy to be here.

Barristan did his best to not notice, of course. He was a Kingsguard and he had an oath. If he listened to their talks circling around the red line of treachery, he would be forced to act...and a mutiny was the last thing he needed at the moment. The entire system was rebelling after the Spider had decided to stab the King and the Council in the back. The Loyal Behemoths were dead or dying.

Prince Viserys, a young man he had believed to be a good and responsible lad, had obviously jumped to the occasion and decided to usurp the crown from his brother. After that, the madness had spread everywhere. There were tens of thousands smallfolk in the streets, and the traitor Gold Fists and Goldcloaks were massacring the loyal men and women who dared refusing the outrageous demands of the Prince of Summerhall.

"The King should never have granted this traitor the title of Dragonstone Admiral," he told conversationally to the last remaining Kingsguard by his side. But it was not a confirmation he received a scowl.

"I disagree, Ser," the young visage of Ser Arys Oakheart was a scowl. "It is one of the rare decisions the King took which wasn't completely stupid."

"Careful, now," It wouldn't do for a Kingsguard to voice this opinion in public.

The Knight of the Reach sniffed.

"Look at us," Arys said with loathing in his voice. "We are trying to save what is left of the King's Landing military forces, but there's no one left to care. The Council is dead. The entire fleet is being purged as we speak. The armies have turned their cloaks. The Lords are abandoning us for we are damaged goods."

"We are Kingsguards and we serve the King." But deep inside, a little voice screamed to him the King had refused to come out the foundations of Maegor's Citadel as long as he was busy with...something. Barristan was in contact every hour with Dayne, but the Lord Commander had firmly and glacially told him he would have to fight the battle alone.

"Well..." the conversation stopped as one of his aides ran to deliver to him a message.

"The Traitor Prince Viserys is on line 1."

Barristan smiled unhappily. So it had come to this. The capital and the entire planet were lost. Now the turncloaks wanted the Red Keep intact.

"Activate the link, but limited display in front of me, please."

It wouldn't do at all for the enemy to have a good look at the war room. One second later, and a life-sized holographic image of Prince Viserys Targaryen appeared at the emplacement he wanted. Barristan had almost expected the crown, the gaudy decorations and the sceptre of royal authority, but the youngest brother of King Rhaegar showed none of these objects on his person. In fact, his clothes were those of a simple Admiral with two military medals above his heart and a simple green dragon on his chest to break the monotony of the gold uniform.

"Ser Barristan," the rebellious Admiral of Dragonstone saluted.

"Speak your words, traitor," Barristan called back.

The young man winced before catching up quickly and smiling thinly.

"It is going to be that way, isn't it?" The question was obviously rhetoric and thus neither Kingsguard opened their mouths to reply. "My forces have the Red Keep surrounded and the energy of the cities' fusion plants is no longer available to you. You have secondary systems, I know it, but your anti-air batteries will not last long since I have complete control of the fleet and the orbital defences. And most of the peace garrison has been lost trying to restore control. For some reason, people didn't like the ugly affairs you tolerated for too long."

"I am well-aware of my situation, thank you."

"In this case, surrender," pleaded the traitor Prince. "I don't want to storm the fortress and provoke a bloodbath..."

"You will have to," cut him Barristan. "I am not going to throw down my weapons for a man who has decided to betray his family and everything we stood for. I hope you weren't deluded to think we would gladly accept to serve in your Kingsguard."

The face of Prince Viserys turned into a smirk.

"Give you a place in my Kingsguard?" The laughter which resonated in his ears had the music of sincerity. And then the smirk became a very angry expression.

"I don't want you in my Kingsguard, _Barristan the Bold_ ," the venom when his nickname was uttered was impressive. "For two decades, you should have restrained Rhaegar. He is raving mad. I know it, you know it, Varys knew it and now thanks to him, the entire realm is aware of it. After my father, you had a duty to the realm. You squandered it, you, Oswell Whent and of course this psychopath of Arthur Dayne."

"We swore a vow." This was absolute. The Kingsguard and the white swords did not rule. "We protect the King."

"Nice words," the reply was dark and sarcastic. "I'm sure the rest of the realm is incredibly happy to know that...because while you saved him from his weekly assassinations, Westeros was falling apart."

"The Crown Prince can and will retake the capital." That was not something Barristan had doubts about. The Crown warships may have temporarily sided with Viserys, but a large fleet had been sent at Highgarden and the moment the Crown-Reach armada came back, Viserys supporters would bend the knee and beg for mercy.

"By the Crone, you really are an idiot aren't you?" Barristan nearly stopped the communication after this insult. "I am not the enemy you should be concerned about. Rhaenys is on her way from Dorne to take the throne and I'm sure Prince Joffrey is doing the same. The entire Storm Sector is ready to implode and every House which rebelled in the last thirty years will rebel once they hear the proof of your crimes. Your regime is dead. Now do the reasonable thing, open the gates and swear yourself to the black. The Night's Watch can benefit from your abilities..."

"Never."

Viserys looked to open his mouth for another attempt when another voice was heard. And to Barristan's surprise it was one of a woman.

This was a grave violation of procedure. The war room was not authorised to female servants and-

"I wanted to see if you were going to do the intelligent thing, but I guess the time where Kingsguards were more than rape accomplices, genocide-makers and assassins-in-chief is over."

"Who are you?"

"I am the death of your King. Now die, Barristan the Bold, and know you have utterly failed in your duty. Boom."

Barristan was still trying to understand that someone had hacked the most secure war room of the Red Keep when the space about one hundred metres before him exploded.

"No..."

The shockwave propelled him directly against the wall and the splinters impaled his Terminator battle-armour. There was a scream of agony and Barristan saw Ser Arys fall, half of his body missing and next to him the tactical displays were killing dozens of his subordinates as their work instruments were pulverised in lethal debris.

For a second, Barristan saw the hurricane of destruction calm and he felt relief. Then the flames came and he screamed, as his battle-armour and himself were literally and bloodily stuck to the back wall.

But everyone was dead.

No one came. There was no rescue, no reinforcements and he could not draw his sword for his arms didn't answer anymore.

"I swore a vow..."

For the first time of his life, he drew absolutely no comfort from it.

The flames engulfed the war room.

Ser Barristan Selmy screamed.

* * *

 **Lady Margaery Tyrell, 04.09.300AAC, Highgarden System**

When Margaery saw Willas enter, she knew her fears – and his – about the war reunion had just been justified.

Her eldest brother fell on one of the blue-green armchairs with a groan of relief and drank an entire glass of red before he opened his mouth.

"Your betrothed, sister, is mad and a complete idiot," the first words out of his mouth were the final confirmation.

"How bad is it?"

"Oh, nothing too important," Willas was rarely showing this much unhappiness, in public or not. "Father was convinced he had to lead the charge against the snakes, and it is so convenient we have a grand fleet here ready for war. The Crown and the Reach fleet will unite, hand in hand, and crush this rebellion in months."

If Willas had not explained it to her beforehand, she would have thought it was a good idea. But while the forces in the Highgarden were impressive, there were also terribly far from the frontlines and would need over a month to finish their preparations and reach Marcher systems like Starpike. And at this moment, what the Reach needed was a fast-reaction force assembled in the minimum of time. They had to stabilise the Storm Sector before going after the Dornish on their own ground.

The total mobilisation ordered on every planet and orbital station was not fast.

Margaery looked at the luxurious golden chandeliers and the decoration of the living room her brothers and she used for their informal meetings. But each time her eyes fixed something, she was seeing the fires of exploding shipyards and human corpses floating in the void.

"How many warships are we speaking about?"

"The Crown will commit essentially ninety-nine percent of its First Fleet," told Willas in a disapproving tone. "Three super-battleships, fourteen ships of the line, twenty-eight battlecruisers, two fleet carriers and their escorts are going to be resupplied and sent in direction of Nightsong. Father will go with them. He has decided to take one super-battleship, seventy-seven ships of the line, over one hundred and forty battlecruisers, seven fleet carriers and I will not bother you with the hundreds of lighter ships."

Margaery nodded, trying to remind herself of the subtleties of the internal Reach jump points. This was a big fleet and would need to be resupplied and in permanent contact with Highgarden. Once it was said, it was obvious the path in the stars they had to take would be a Highgarden-Ambrose-Cider Hall-Ashford line...or go further by the Pommingham System if Willas' worst fears about Connington and his ilk were justified.

"Is there any hope Father will change his mind?"

She knew they had to punish the treachery of House Martell for the hundreds of thousand people they had sentenced to oblivion, but this left them undermanned on other fronts and with the destruction of Westbrook they were not going to be as heavily reinforced as the initial strategy had planned for.

"I suppose it is possible," Willas did not sound at all optimistic. "Father has summoned two-thirds of the Lords in five days before the official departure of the 'Grand Fleet'. But I am persuaded he has made up his mind and is just trying to organise the rest of our fleet deployments right now."

Margaery was a Lady of the Reach, and her mother and her grandmother had told her better than to swear, even if Willas was the only person present in this room. The last days were bringing bad news after bad news and the plans of her House were coming down in flames. Everything they had tried to build in the long decade of peace was threatened.

"The only positive outcome right now of this conflict is that my marriage timetable has been delayed to an unknown date," her mother would reprimand her for these words. After listening to Prince Aegon in public without the filter of his circle, the propaganda bards who filtered everything and the paid courtiers, she had arrived to the logical conclusion Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen was just as dangerously mad as his father and his grandfather, just in a different way.

Manipulating him and binding him to her will would not be exactly difficult. The methods she would have to use left a very bad taste in her mouth, but she could do it. It was what she had been trained to do for the glory and the future of House Tyrell.

The problem was...how many problems had he created at King's Landing she was not aware of? It was kind of obvious now the Highgarden intelligence services had not been able to infiltrate the Red Keep as they wanted to be...

"I suppose Father gave you command of the Highgarden Reserve, then."

Let's give her father this due, this was exactly where Willas' talents were best used.

"Yes, it's Garlan who is going with the Grand Fleet. Loras has been commanded to join him too, but the messages will take time to arrive to him as we don't know his exact travel destinations."

Brown eyes met brown eyes and for a moment Margaery wanted nothing but to abandon this political turmoil and go to a nice mansion until the disorder stopped. It was tempting to take her cousins, go to a beach for sunbathing, swim and laugh about the boys they wanted to kiss. But she was a Tyrell of Highgarden and she couldn't do that to her family.

"What do you think the Dornish have in mind, striking us like that?" she asked instead after a long silence. "They have to know they can't stand against our fleets and our armies..."

"Since they began this war, they must think they have a chance..." Willas readjusted his military uniform. "But I suppose we will soon get messengers from the Sector telling us whether or not their murderous sneak attack on Westbrook, Beesbury and Ambrose was justified from their point of view..."

* * *

 **Senior Captain Lady Brienne Tarth, 04.09.300AAC, Summerhall System**

"We are," Brienne paused dramatically, "tourists."

The custom officer in Targaryen colours sent her a murderous look, but his mouth stayed closed and not an insult was heard.

This uncommon reserve from a man sworn to the dragon may have to do something with the dozen laser rifles and other weapons pointed directly at him.

"You are tourists in violation of the Westerosi laws," the slowness of the sentence told her that if there had not been these weapons around, the tone of the black-haired man would have louder and less tolerant.

"I suppose this will be for the courts to decide, then?" And the custom officer was forced to nod, as hundreds of soldiers from Evenfall embarked in the shuttles. Their destination was the planet they watched from the orbital hangars.

Summerhall.

Jewel of the Storm Sector, once owned by the Lords of Storm's End, confiscated by the Targaryen dynasty during the Great Rebellion. The planet had no massive orbital defences, no great fleet and no endless armies to mount a defence. It had little to none industrial capacity. No, Summerhall principal advantage was its crucial strategic location in the middle of the Storm Sector: five jump points allowed any starship to come and get out of this system. Stonehelm, Fawnton and Blackhaven were one jump away. To reach Storm's End and Felwood, any merchant or simple traveller required two translations.

As a consequence, the beautiful world of Summerhall she could watch from her current location was a prized pleasure world and owning it provided its proprietor a nice cash influx. Thousands of wealthy men, women and their families came to Summerhall every year. The destroyed warships of the Battles of Summerhall had long been scrapped or towed elsewhere. The oceans and seas of the planet were of the purest blue and each continent looked simply perfect.

Brienne knew the conditions on the ground were fulfilling the picture in orbit. To live on Summerhall for several fortnights was to enjoy a climate of summer, exotic food and an infrastructure built to satisfy the most capricious trillionaires. There were mansions, inns and palaces on Summerhall, she knew, which would make the finest holdfasts of Evenfall small and poor in comparison.

"I don't know what game you're playing with, Captain," the curiosity existed under a thin veneer of arrogance, "but King's Landing will throw your Lord in a prison cell. Summerhall belongs to House Targaryen, and challenging them will end badly for the man you have sworn your fealty to. And he won't be the only one to pay the price. King Rhaegar..."

"King Rhaegar promised us peace, order and prosperity," retorted Brienne, with a pomp taken straight from the introduction music of Galactic Targaryen News.

"You know, my Father believed him, for a time. House Tarth really wanted to forget the Great Rebellion. Lord Robert was dead and we knew the Tyrells would smash us if we gave them a pretext."

Thousands of shuttles entered the atmosphere under the cheers of the crowd, the battlecruisers and the screen providing a show of military might for any man of the local garrison who might entertain thoughts of resistance.

"But over and over, the Targaryens screwed us. The taxes never stopped rising. We couldn't maintain a large military, but every time we were forced to battle pirates and corsairs from the Narrow Void, we were ignored. The help pleas were not interesting Griffin's Roost and King's Landing. They wanted us weak and demilitarised, while their friends were busy selling half of our economy to the Reach and the Crown Sectors. They wanted us poor and unemployed, as a desperate population will eat the scraps of their Lords wherever they came from. They wanted us divided, for a rebellion could not begin if we lacked support. They wanted us humiliated, because their arrogance was so overwhelming they thought their victories were a sign of the Seven they were _right_."

Ser Brienne of Tarth turned her heels and marched back to her transport.

"We tried peace on their terms and we failed to satisfy the Targaryens. We Stormlanders don't like being dragged in chains in service of the dragon-less lords."

"You can't win!" She didn't turn back at the loud exclamation. "The Storm Sector is nearly bankrupt!"

"Winning isn't the point," Brienne spoke loudly for her Navy, Army and Marine personnel to not miss a word of the debate. "We want to be free. Give me liberty, or give me death..."

* * *

 **Captain Lady Sansa Stark, 04.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

"Boom."

The listening devices went off-line and the holographic screens became black. Many displays flickered before agonising and stopping functioning. In the distance, a loud rumble was heard, the after-shocks of the plasma bomb under the command war room.

"That's two Kingsguards dealt with," she told Meera.

"And Jaime Lannister is probably a Dornish prisoner of war," added her friend and co-commander for this mission. "Preston Greenfield and all his men have deserted to swear their weapons to Joffrey. The Hightower Knight is protecting the Crown Prince at Highgarden. Oswell Whent did us a favour and got himself killed in the streets of King's Landing."

There was a pause and several crannogmen around them smirked in an evil manner.

"I suppose, Lord Commander Arthur Dayne, that you are the last of the old Kingsguard."

Their naked prisoner sent them a glare of pure loathing, but tied and bound as he was, it was the only thing he could do. Gone were the white armour and the frightening white helmet. The man was disarmed, bled from several minor wounds on the arms and legs and he had a lot of blue-violet bruises from his eyes to his feet.

That was what happened when you were a frightening warrior able to slaughter your way against any opposition, but an execrable piece of shit in your usual day's life. Skill with a vibro-sword, a warhammer or a power-axe was useless when one of the servants you had killed the brother on the King's order spiked your drink with a rape drug.

"I suppose it is fitting," remarked Sansa. "The worst Sword of the Morning in living memory was the last defender of a Mad King." The daughter of Eddard Stark turned to Meera. "Under the circumstances, I see no reason to give him the opportunity of a confession, last words or innocence pleas."

"Agreed."

"Ser Arthur Dayne, by the will of Lord Eddard Stark, you are judged for the kidnapping, the rape and the murder of Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, my aunt. We have also sufficient evidence to link you with the murder of Lady Ashara Dayne, your sister. By your ignoble actions and monstrous deeds, the Seven Sectors burned in the fires of war. The Old Gods only know how many thousands you have murdered directly and how many millions of souls have perished at war because you swore your sword to a prophecy-loving Rapist."

Sansa drew her dagger from her scabbard. She could have used her rifle, an explosive or something more lethal twenty metres away. But she was a Stark, and the person who passed the sentence wielded the sword.

"The sentence is death, to be executed immediately and as slowly as possible."

The first strike of her dagger plunged between the legs, spraying blood where no man or woman liked to receive blows. The second stabbed his left leg. The third struck the right. Arms, hands, nose and everything she had the urge to cut was done, spraying a lot of blood on her grey armour.

After two minutes, she stopped.

"The North Remembers, Arthur Dayne. When you see Aerys in hell, tell him his son will soon join him." Her dagger sliced his throat and Sansa stood, unwilling to watch the light disappear in these violet eyes. Arthur Dayne had committed unforgivable sins, and his death was just retribution.

Meera was waiting for her on the other side of the deep control command of Maegor's Citadel. Sansa cleaned her dagger with a smile on a tapestry of the Conquest, and they marched to the end of the corridor silently.

As expected, security was pathetic in the entrails of the Red Keep. Their initial entrance had revealed huge weaknesses – whatever Meera said, few Northerners of their group had the built to be convincing servants – but once you managed to hack your way in their systems, it was like she had been handed the keys of the vaults without much effort.

Maybe she was that good. But Sansa banished the thought immediately. It was likelier the Targaryens and their bootlickers were just that bad.

"The madman is in a sort of ceremonial room at the end of the V-2 avenue, My Lady," announced one of her soldiers. "Per your instructions we have not entered the room. The soldiers in position at the doors and the idiots coming out have been dealt with permanently."

"Excellent," it was good when the plans were working like a finely tuned program. "What is the Rapist doing by the way?"

"Err...he looks to be preparing a sort of...ritual..."

It was in fact worse than that. When the Northern assassination force saw the first corpses on the red and black carpets, it was clear something awful was happening there. Granted Sansa had never thought the insane King was doing nice things when he was secure from the rest of the world, but...

There was a lot of blood everywhere. And a lot of it belonged to men who by all accounts were the court of sycophant the Rapist liked to surround himself with. Some looked like they had been gunned down. Others had their wrists and throats slit. None had died peacefully.

"By the Old Gods..."swore quietly Meera.

Their arrival, while not silent and furtive, was not intercepted by guards or fanatic warriors.

There were just dead people. In Sansa's opinion, it was a fitting metaphor of what was going to happen to the Seven Sectors if Rhaegar was not removed today. And honestly, it might be too late for millions of souls.

At the centre of the ceremonial room were more corpses, some were disposed on caricature of living beings, other were lying where they had met their ends. The dead were of all society classes. Guards, merchants, court nobles, servants, septons and red priests were presenting their dead faces and their mutilated legs, shoulders or back. Sansa was not sure, but one of them was dressed in the parade uniform of a Westerosi High Admiral.

And at the centre of this madness was the architect of the Rebellion seventeen years ago: Rhaegar Targaryen himself.

The Rapist was busy shouting in an unknown tongue as they approached. It looked like nonsense to her ears, but a glance at a circle of burning candles and three extremely big jewel-like objects told her what Rhaegar Targaryen had intended to do.

And the next words of the Iron Throne owner supported her theory.

"Why aren't they hatching?" the silver-haired man yelled. Under the light of old-fashioned torches and in dirty clothes, Rhaegar looked like a clone of Aerys II. "They must hatch! The prophecy is clear! The sacrifices have been done! The song of ice and fire must save life and give time for the hero to defeat the Great Other!"

Sansa didn't laugh. Rhaegar had constantly tried to plunge the Seven Sectors into the abyss and his support of the Night's Watch was non-existent. And here he wanted dragons to feed his monstrous delusions.

"Rhaegar Targaryen!"

"I'm busy, Arthur!" screamed in a mad voice the incest-spawned tyrant. But something in her voice must have alarmed him, for he abandoned his little dance on the altar and turned to watch them.

Rhaegar Targaryen paled. Obviously, even from the pit of insanity of his mind, he could recognise the battle-armours of House Stark.

"Rapist Rhaegar Targaryen, I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

Words that every Northern man, woman and child had dreamed to utter in the last decades were hers to speak.

"Lord Eddard Stark sends his regards."

* * *

 **Author's note :** and here we go for the war which the old and young people will remember for the rest of their lives...

The Warlords are rising, the fortresses are falling and armies are mustering in the name of vengeance and justice. The Long Peace is no more. Now is the time for battles and betrayals.

If you want more to read, the maps and the warships I use as models or the tropes, here are the interesting links.

TV Tropes Page: / pmwiki/ / Fanfic/ LetTheGalaxyBurn

Alternate History page (useful for conversations, maps and ships models but you need an account, you have to remove the spaces): www. alternate history forum/ threads/ let-the-galaxy-burn- asoiaf-space-opera-au.396049 /

If you want to support my writing on P a treon, the link is: www. p a treon Antony444

Let the Galaxy Burn!


	16. Cataclysm

**War of the Ten Warlords**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Cataclysm**

 _Humanity had grown incredibly arrogant over the last millennium._

 _For all the cheap holo-series presenting the valiant soldiers in battle-armours in desperate fights against improbable genetic monstrosities, the reality was somewhat underwhelming. Whatever few non-human intelligent species humanity had met thorough history were in all cases completely outmatched by the firepower the mighty fleets mankind could bring to a battle. In the best of cases for the non-humans, their planets were forced to sign accords reducing them to a protectorate of the nation having discovered them and they were forbidden for all eternity to leave their home star system. In the worst of cases...well, many of the ancient Great Powers of this galaxy had dirty secrets and this one was one more added to the list._

 _If a bard asked an Admiral or a General whether the human race's expansion across the galaxy could be considered endangered, said man or woman was going to be soon under very heavy pressure to find another job. For all the damage done by the Doom of Valyria, the population levels in the Westeros and Essos Quadrants had increased considerably in the last centuries. When Aegon the Conqueror was crowned King of the Seven Sectors, the population of his realm had slightly been under one hundred and twenty billion. The Dance of Dragons killed hundreds of millions and ended an era of prosperity one hundred-plus years later, but the succeeding wars didn't kill half of this body count. The Blackfyre Rebellions were fought without dragons and except the First, were largely restricted to one or two Sectors. The Last Blackfyre Rebellion, which saw Maelys the Monstrous slain, didn't reach the planets under the Iron Throne's rule and cost the realm about eighty-six million warriors. It was a price the Targaryen dynasty could easily afford to pay and the losses of this war ended by Ser Barristan 'the Bold' Selmy were nearly forgotten two decades later._

 _The Usurper's War, contrary to what some Loyalist commanders tried to pretend given the benefit of hindsight, didn't break this tendency. Close to four hundred and twelve million men, women and children perished in the great conflict to end King Aerys' reign and depose his crown on King Rhaegar Targaryen's head. Since by 284AAC the Westerosi population levels had largely grown over three hundred billion, the Seven Sectors had largely the ability to absorb these losses without a heartbeat of pause._

 _No, it was the Greyjoy Rebellion which was the real game-changer. In less than a year, the ill-conceived uprising imagined by Balon Greyjoy caused approximately seven hundred and ninety-eight million deaths. For the first time in centuries, the civilian population found itself in the middle of the inferno caused by a great war, and the casualties were horrendous. The Iron Sector never recovered before the War of the Ten Warlords erupted and made many peace issues completely irrelevant._

 _Now the Iron Sector was small and the atrocities committed post-war could be ignored by the Paramount and Noble Houses. Many Lords and Ladies indeed practised interesting selective policies, publically mourning the cost of occupation while sending the worst sellsword companies on planets which were simply reduced to rubble after years of fighting._

 _When it came down to it, the majority of the factions now vying for absolute domination over Westeros gave relatively little thought to the post-war future of Westeros, pointedly missing entirely the point there were people on certain planets which had excellent reasons to drown their planets into oceans of blood._

 _By 02.09.300AAC and the opening of Operation Midnight, the Seven Sectors had a population estimated to three hundred and fifty-eight billion people. This was a population number which would never be seen again this century. In three days, the Dornish bombs and the Behemoth clashes killed eight million subjects of the Iron Throne._

 _And the worst was yet to come._

 _Unknown to all, humanity was going to be reminded soon the very signification of the word 'cataclysm'..._

Extract of Prelude to the Great Cataclysm, by Barabo Durvyris, 350AAC.

* * *

" _Hear my words. You treat the White Walkers like they are mortal opponents. They aren't. Fighting this enemy is like trying to kill an elemental force of destruction, one which hates you on such a scale your own emotions are literally nothing compared to it. The beings you call the Others want us all dead. Don't bother trying to open negotiations or learn their language. These are human methods, and you don't fight humans. You fight a cataclysm of untold scale, and unless you win, the galaxy will fall into the cold embrace of death_." King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder, 301AAC.

 **Ygritte of the Crimson Squadron, 05.09.300AAC, Kroc's Star System**

A decade ago, the Kroc Station and the green planet it orbited had been one of the most prosperous fixed bastions built by the Free Folk. The star system was at a crossroad of no less than six jump points, each of them individually valuable, and best of all things, it had an inhabitable world. As a result, the clans had continuously tried to fight for it before a King-Beyond-the-Wall – whose name had long been lost – had declared this star system neutral ground for all the clans. The new clan of the Kroc had been created to watch over the station and the planet, store food and spare parts and eventually sell them to those who had the means to barter them.

In the last generations, Kroc's Station and the world it defended had been one of the most secure places on the hundreds of systems the clans used for their own purposes. The station had been defended by over four hundred missile launchers, seven hundred laser batteries and three hundred plasma weapons. Scores and scores of offensive satellites were waiting the order to pulverise any Free Folk captain stupid enough to violate the neutrality of the grounds. There were vast minefields ready to be activated in case the procedures were violated too. If this wasn't enough, Kroc's Station had its own mobile fleet and it was formidable: an ancient Ark, nine Barges, hundreds of smaller scouts and as many starfighters as they needed to defeat any raiding party.

Ygritte knew that even the biggest clans would have bled heavily to get past the missiles and the mines. No matter who your name was, Thenn, Giantsbane, Rayder, Lord of Bones or another title, the clan of the Kroc would have been able to teach a very painful lesson to the idiotic leader willing to take by force the supplies they guarded.

It had been a decade ago. Against the White Walkers and their dreaded weapons, Kroc's Station was just a death trap. So had concluded the King, and there had been no one among the clan leaders to say he was wrong.

The problem was that there were not enough ships for everyone. The population of Kroc and Kroc's station had grown considerably despite the riots and mini-wars always happening when Free Folk lived together in high numbers. Ygritte had seen the numbers and at first hadn't believed them: the Kroc captains had told there were near sixty million souls living on the station or the planet. Yes, the King's fleet had hundreds of millions in its kilometres-long hulls, but it was the alliance of hundreds of clans, not a single system.

The Kroc clan had been able to gather four big Arks and three more Barges somehow, in addition to the hundreds of ships they had already promised to the Queen.

It wasn't enough. By all rights, there were ten million or so Free Folk left on Kroc's station and below.

It was why Ygritte and the rest of Crimson Squadron were here. Each local day which passed was a day letting two or three ships finish its return to active status and jump towards the Fist of the First Men System, two jumps away from here. Each ship escaping meant more souls saved from the damned embrace of the Enemy.

And in the mean time, a four centuries-old foundry had churned starfighters like they were pebbles. The majority of the best pilots were with the fleet, but the Kroc had roused his people and the Free Folk were not kneelers. In days they had understood that in this war, there were no sides: if you had a heartbeat, you were prey for the White Walkers and then it was your choice how to spend the last days of your life. You could end your last days waiting for the sky to burn blue, or you could take arms. The local population had come by the thousands to their training grounds and the volunteers even now hadn't stopped.

The difficulties of the spare parts and the engines were demoralising, forcing them to resort to more and more desperate improvisation. There were never enough mechanics. The fuel tankers were prioritising the ships fleeing towards the Fist. The pilots were totally and utterly inexperienced, with at most thirty hours in the simulators and ten hours in real life.

Somehow, it would have to be enough. Kroc's Station had to be defended and the Free Folk were not going to abandon their brothers and sisters to the Enemy. Ygritte knew of two barge-carriers who were staying behind near the jump point for them and the survivors.

The hangars were more crowded than in her wildest nightmares as she tried to return to her starfighter's bay. Despite the warriors, despite the iron demands of the Kroc, panic was spreading everywhere and people who had not accepted their role in the last defence of the star system were panicking. The young woman didn't blame them. Free Folk were humans, and if someone told her he didn't fear the White Walkers, Ygritte was going to cut his dick and launch it into an incinerator.

"Has the problem with the thrusters of this fighter been solved?" She asked to a mechanic as one of the units supposed to be under her command was still under repair.

"Yes, Crimson Archer, we will need..."

The alarms began to blare at this moment and it was the alarms everyone had been dreading for nearly seventy days.

Ygritte didn't wait for any answer and she ran until she arrived to the old tactical display. Several shadowy blue dots had appeared and there were too many for it to be a probe or a raid.

"Talk to me, Urur."

"They came out of the darkness seconds ago, Crimson Archer. We already count three scores of Tyrant-class cruisers and eleven, no twelve, Carrion-class battleships. They arrive on a two-zero-zero intercept course at six hundred thousand kilometres. We have less than five hours to..."

Ygritte knew she was paling and whatever she could do at the moment was not vomit. Five hours might seem a lot: but to get out the Free Folk slow transports and evade pursuit afterwards they had to go now or they would be easy target for the White Walker artillerists.

As for the opposition, they were well and truly fucked, and not in the good kind. The King had said she could give the monsters a serious bleeding given the numbers she had available, but the Walkers were legion today. The cruisers the Free Folk called Tyrant were already raw murder: able to massacre entire clans in hours. Compared to the Carrion-class, they were just small jokes. These monsters were dagger-like and wielded more firepower in one hull than hundred of Arks combined together.

"Tell the Kroc he must launch at once everything ready. What can't take off right now must be abandoned."

Ygritte already hated herself for this, but there was no other choice. Transports which could get away were winning over those which couldn't.

"Update the last data and give to all commands the orders to expedite fight preparations. All starfighters are to launch in one hour."

The rest was just desperate decision after desperate decision. When she finally jumped in her starfighter's cockpit, for the first time in her life she found no joy.

Ten million.

This was the number of Free Folk they hadn't be able to evacuate in time and it hurt more than she could have imagined a year ago.

Ten million.

And given the approach and the firepower of the Walkers, neither Crimson Squadron nor anything they had could stop the demons coming for them.

"Launch!" And in a fraction of second, the old but sturdy steam catapults sent her in the void. By instinct, her fingers adjusted the last course on the console. And her starfighter answered like the perfect weapon it was. Stolen hundreds of years ago from the crows, Ygritte didn't know its first name and she didn't care. For all Free Folk, the oblong hull with two 'wings' capable to bear the laser cannons and two missiles was called the Hunter.

"This is Crimson Archer, form on me," she ordered on all frequencies. "Ignore the Tyrants, priority targets are the Carrions."

This was contrary to her experience: the Tyrants were the best anti-starfighter killers in this galaxy. Unfortunately, killing them in this battle would serve no purpose. The battleships were the real threat.

The starfighters activating their engines and rising with her towards the Enemy was a magnificent torrent of light. Dozens pilots missed their first manoeuvres and went completely off-course, a problem which would put them minutes away from the main formation. But there were tens of thousands following her. Kroc's station crunch-suppliers had told her they would be able to give close to two hundred thousand starfighters and so far they hadn't disappointed. Now if only the fifty pilots of Crimson Squadron weren't the only experimented spear-pilots in this wave...

The next update was worse. There were now seventy-eight Tyrants, nearly four scores of them, and fifteen Carrions. And since the monsters' furtive systems outclassed them by five levels, the young female warrior knew they were only seeing what the enemy wanted to see. Kroc's station began to launch missiles and activate the minefields in the outer system, but the demons contemptuously ignored the shots.

"Crimson Archer, there is something weird on my sensors..."

"It's true! There's a gravitic anomaly we've just detected behind the Carrions..."

"Shadow Squadron, illuminate the zone!"

The two hundred-plus starfighters carrying advanced versions of the H-47B sensor emitted at full power and suddenly another Walker warship materialised on their consoles' screens.

Screams of incredulity were on every frequency. The Enemy's Carrion-class was longer and more dangerous than the kneeler's 'ships of the line'. These battleships were thin blades coursing with unfathomable blue energy and unlike the Tyrants, no one could honestly remember the time when a Carrion battleship had been destroyed by human forces.

The colossus they were currently a million kilometres away dwarfed the Carrions like an adult towers over a small child.

The dimensions and the acceleration it sustained were flatly impossible. No kneeler's 'Admiral' had ever been able to build such a large warship. Even the Arks, which were modified colonisation ships were dominated by this newcomer.

Ten kilometres long. About a kilometre wide and three kilometres high.

In spite of the distance, the Free Folk sensors could see the flanks bristling with blue-energy, the unnatural turrets pivoting to track her squadron and the formidable tech-sorcery protecting top and bottom of the impossibly-long hull.

And if this thing was not dangerous enough, the entire hull seemed to serve as support for a terrifying cannon.

No, not 'a cannon'. THE Cannon. Ygritte estimated it had to be five or six kilometres long and the maw opening was larger than a lot of cruisers. Deep inside at this moment, she knew Kroc's Station and everything in this system were not the reason this moving fortress had been built.

There was only one target the Enemy could consider threatening enough to invest years of effort in this super-battleship. And it had never belonged to the Free Folk.

The Wall.

"Designate new contact...Star Killer."

For an odd reason, the very name seemed right for such an absurdly dangerous weapon.

"Crimson, Shadow, Killer, Destruction, Unity, Orange and Freedom squadrons will create an opening by striking the lead Carrion battleship. All remaining squadrons, break through the formation and inflict the maximum of damage you can!"

Kroc's Station unleashed the defences which had stayed silent for centuries, and an ocean of destruction raced to meet the White Walkers, two hundred thousand starfighters on their heels. Roars of hate and defiance were screamed on every frequency. Whatever discipline and order had existed vanished and the Free Folk intercepted the Enemy formation.

It was a massive slaughter, but for the first time Tyrant-class cruisers began to die in explosions of blue nova. One, two, three and then Crimson Squadron launched its missile in the teeth of the gigantic Carrion battleship. At this distance, they couldn't miss it...and they didn't. Over six thousand missiles were shot in sprint mode and at this acceleration speed, even the supernatural reaction times of Walkers' commanders was not enough. The blue energy shattered hundreds of projectiles and wiped out Destruction and Unity squadrons with a single volley, but when Ygritte and the survivors broke through, the Carrion battleship was wracked by series of explosions.

And then three seconds later there was a new star in the system, whose brilliance overwhelmed all sensors.

"Yes!"

A sound of pure, unbridled passion roared in her ears and Ygritte joined her voice to theirs. They had lost hundreds of starfighters, but the White Walkers had just paid dearly for the first time of the war.

Then the rest of the assault force collided with the fourteen remaining battleships and losses skyrocketed to numbers she never had thought possible. Six more Tyrants and one Carrion were vaporised but over ninety thousand starfighters were wiped out from this galaxy. Added to the rest of the losses, over half of the starfighters were already dead, and then two Carrions began to fire with their main batteries at maximum power.

For a second, there was just a stunned silence. Of the near forty thousand starfighters which had been able to break through, there were only flaming debris as the biggest parts to proof they had once existed.

The last wave attacked the super-battleship, but the monstrous warship's blue energy screen swallowed missiles and lasers like they were nothing and its counter-attack destroyed the Free Folk pilots with terrifying ease.

"Gods..."

They were breaking off now. She hadn't given a single command, but there wasn't simply anything to do. Of the two hundred thousand pilots she had led to this battle, maybe three thousand had escaped the White Walkers' batteries. There was no way they could do significant damage during a single wave.

"Crimson Archer, the energy levels around the Star Killer, they are..."

It was one of the six survivors of her squadron who had tried to speak to her, but the warning came too late. And it wasn't like they could have done anything.

The great cannon of the super-battleship fired.

At first, it looked like a thin blue lightning...then the small blue line became a raging inferno of blue energy. They were not the targets, of course. Why would the demons waste their time and their energy on a heavily battered force?

It was like the end of all things and Kroc's Station was on its path. The young commander of the Free Folk squadron gripped her console in fear but at this moment sensors were showing the same horrifying reality her own eyes were able to discern.

The station which had been their base and their refuge for the last fortnights vanished forever in an explosion making those of the preceding fight tame. The defences, the minefields, the satellites... everything in orbit was exploding or convulsing in blue flames.

And then the planet itself began to freeze. In the first minutes it was like a white wound was hurting the planet but soon it was evident the five-second shot had been sufficient to provoke a new ice age to the sole inhabited planet of the system.

The civilian frequencies were screeching as tens of thousands Free Folk screamed in terror. Ygritte switched back to the squadron's communications seconds after, unable to listen to this tragedy.

Ten million lives they had failed to save.

"Crimson Hunter, give us a new course for the jump point."

"It's not your fault, Crimson Archer."

"I...No, but..." What else could she say to her wingmen?

"Hunter is right, Archer."

"We need to get back to the fleet," Ygritte said after taking a big breath. "The King needs to be informed the White Walkers have that thing to kill all life..."

* * *

 **Euron Greyjoy, 05.09.300AAC, Nightfort System**

The aether around the Eye of the Woe was not pleasant to study. This was a lesson Euron had learned the hard way when he had joined the Night's Watch after this little clusterfuck at Pyke.

It had never been the case wherever he went in the Iron Sector and many of the locations he had visited in his reaving days, so the Crow's Eye had supposed the method the Others had used to create this unnatural breach had also screwed the aether in a major way.

It was like someone had tried to play a symphony with a music instrument as badly as possible, while being accompanied by a thousand singers having no idea to cooperate properly with a band of animals doing their own cacophony in the background.

To say it would be pleasant to hear would be like to say men loved it when they were forced to drink their piss instead of facing insubordination charges. He was certainly not going to make a song of it with the violin he had recently acquired from a Crown bard exiled for some chicanery to this god-forsaken planet.

Coupled with the fact he tired far faster than in his young years with this damned heavy black armour, and Euron wasn't really paying attention to what happened on the magical side of things at every hour of the day. He had to supervise the renovations of the Nightfort infrastructure and watch over a bunch of criminals. Said men believed they were big boys because they had killed one or two men, raped their first woman and tried to take over a gang at King's Landing or one in another Westerosi mega-city.

It was a pleasure to explain to them – in music – why they were insignificant ants in front of his sublime greatness. Yes, he was a bit injured but he at least had tried to become a God – notice the majuscule – and millions had perished under his command.

These common thieves, murderers and rapists were just apprentices in front of the Great Master, crime-wise. But frankly, it was a long and unsavoury chore to make them recognise this evidence.

Sometimes, Euron thought the Conqueror had cast a spell to diminish magically the intelligence of those who opposed his line and by a strange hazard of destiny, born-greenseers were immune to it.

"It would certainly explain why Balon's reavers were so stupid..." He muttered, the sound of his voice resonating in a sinister manner outside his mouth.

He felt it shortly after. The aether was in turmoil. A storm of screams was singing more loudly than the tumult created by the Eye of Woe. Wincing at the idea of the headache he was going to experience tomorrow, he tried to sense the origin of the new uninspiring music...and was rewarded by an enormous flash of blue, the greatest cannon blast he had ever seen in his life, a planet freezing to death...and iris-less blue eyes fixing him with absolute malevolence.

Euron didn't wait to see if the creature could harm him and cut the flow of magic faster than precaution dictated. He felt pain in his mouth and every part of his body, but it was better than the alternative.

It took him a quarter of an hour to stop shouting insults after the vision stopped.

"This is really not good," he rasped after he had finished venting his rage on the skull of one of his deceased subordinates. "Shit!"

The Others were coming faster and apparently they had created their equivalent of a galactic battering ram to storm the protections of the Wall. And by the chorus of screams he had heard, the barbarian wildlings had just been used for the field test of the new weapon.

Euron Greyjoy was a master strategist, but in this case even Balon would have been able to guess their ultimate goal.

"Squire!" He barked. Footsteps echoed in the distance and after a delay which was unpunctual and un-artistic, a young man entered his personal quarters. It was not his last squire, and the Crow's Eye was pretty sure he had not killed the current incumbent of the post.

A suspicion more than justified by the dirty dots on the black uniform of the newcomer.

"Where is my squire?"

"I'm afraid he fell badly in the stairs..." Euron fixed the arrogant youngster for several seconds. The pale eyes, the arrogant posture and the twitching forced him to conclude he had a rapist, a murderer, a liar, a moron and a sadist all in the same body facing him.

Perfect.

In two steps, Euron closed the distance before striking the young man between the legs with his right fist. As the recruit screamed, he seized him by an ear and slammed him against the wall. Exploiting the moment of shock, he seized an ancient obsidian dagger and cut the other ear of this wretch. He cauterised the wound two seconds after, it wouldn't do at all for the black brother to die from blood loss.

"Congratulations, vermin," Euron affirmed conversationally. "You are my new squire. Try to kill someone else without my word and by the next dawn, you will be a eunuch abandoned on the ice fields and I will make you fight a direbear naked. Your name?"

"Ramsay...Ramsay Snow."

Ah yes, the bastard pretending to be the illegitimate child of Lord Roose Bolton. Since his 'father' had never recognised him and he was given the chance between the black and the rope after his crimes were discovered, the troops of the Night's Watch really didn't care one way or another. The fact he had been sent to the Nightfort garrison told volumes however on his behaviour.

"Well, Ramsay Snow it is your lucky day," Euron cheerfully proclaimed as best as his armour metallic carcass allowed him. "I am not going to kill you...today. Now run to Section Eleven and tell them I want a courier to be prepared for Castle Black. I have an important message to deliver to tell the Lord Commander."

Euron moved his gaze away and was displeased. Now his quarters were in a disorderly state.

"And when your worthless carcass has fulfilled my command, come back here and clean this mess."

"I am not your servant."

Euron sighed and trampled the left hand of Ramsay Snow, delighting in the noise of the broken bones.

"You are whatever I want you to be, fleshbag. Now run, before I decide to open your belly and organise an auction for your organs..."

* * *

 **Melisandre of Asshai, 05.09.300AAC, Pommingham System**

Melisandre of Asshai, Red Voice of R'hllor, had regretted several times in the last years the necessity to use King Rhaegar Targaryen and his allies to accomplish the will of her God. Yes, the King and the group of 'magicians' and 'prophecy experts' had been easy to dupe. Thanks to them and their narrow-minded views, she and her High Priestesses had been able to create the foundations of a true worship in Westeros, praise the Lord of Light.

That didn't mean she wouldn't have preferred to work with other Lords and Ladies. Jon Connington, obviously, had proved more and more difficult to handle and in the last couple of years Melisandre had to dedicate nearly fifty Priests and Priestesses to the thankless duty of keeping an eye on this buffoon.

But if the Lord of Griffin's Roost had been one of the largest problems, the court of King's Landing had been full of lesser ones. It was not because they represented a danger for her plans. Indeed, the majority had not a clue how many men and women she had successfully convinced to embrace the light of R'hllor. These nobles and their lackeys were just so busy in their conspiracies that they attacked politically, economically or by force everything they desired. And it had proved inconvenient more than once.

By the nature of their worship, men and women loyal to the Lord of Life and Light were far less willing to plunge their hands in this sea of corruption and treachery. Melisandre had lost more new recruits and agents than she was ready to admit in private save with her High Priestesses.

It was a challenge the will of R'hllor had told her to overcome and so she had, though the circumstances had long pained her. There were many benevolent souls in the Crown Sector, but the unbelievers at the top were not among them.

Fortunately, many of them were no longer dirtying the name of mankind in this galaxy. Unfortunately, her visions in the flames had made clear the high idiots of the council had proven as useless as she had feared.

Melisandre had fully expected the capital to be lost to Rhaegar and his Crown Prince in the first days of war. But the speed and the scope of the defeat Prince Viserys had just handed to the loyalist forces was just exceptional. Not because the King's youngest brother had made particularly brilliant plans; Melisandre was no military expert but the actions of the new Green King had looked rushed and improvised on the field. His opponents had clearly been stupid, easily manipulated and utterly unable to do the jobs they were paid for. The Spider had also proved a nuisance, though for this one she was ready to admit she had underestimated the eunuch.

But by the flames of judgement, the reality remained: the capital was lost and her priesthood was forced to go underground. While the losses could and would be recovered, praise R'hllor, this was a complication and would cause delays elsewhere.

Melisandre closed her eyes before withdrawing her hands from the flames. Today, she really felt her real age, and not the looks of the young woman she presented to this galaxy. A shook of her head, and two servants bowed before ritually dressing her in the red clothes of the Red Voice.

Fluidly, she stood before walking out of her quarters on the _Lord of Light_ , her personal starship built in the secret holy shipyards of Volantis. As the Seven Sectors were plunged into the purifying inferno of war, she had chosen it to be her temporary headquarters as well as her transport to Highgarden.

The corridors and the plazas she walked through were beautiful, decorated in red runes and flame-like decorations. Loud songs of devotion were sung at every moment, praising R'hllor for his guidance and the salvation of their souls.

"May the Lord of Light shine on your path, Red Voice..."

"R'hllor is with you my child..."

Melisandre stopped over eighty times before arriving to her destination, but she didn't mind. Whether they wanted reassurance, voice their support, debate a theology point or address a request, the will of the children of R'hllor was welcome. The heretical 'Faith of the Seven' and its gluttonous septons had cut itself off from the very people it pretended to elevate the souls to the heavens. Worshipping R'hllor was completely opposed to these vices and material corruption. Faith and love in the Lord of the Light was the most important duty of a Red Priestess and Red Priest. It didn't matter if you were the daughter of a septa, a prostitute, a slave, a merchant or a noble. R'hllor accepted everyone, and it was the Lord of Light Himself who decided the women and men having the greatest skill to speak more than others. Melisandre herself was only Red Voice because R'hllor willed it. Should the Only True God decide her service was best done by lesser actions, Melisandre would accept and another Red Voice rise in her place.

The room she was admitted was guarded by several Red Templars, recently arrived from Volantis at the direct order of the High Priest.

Three Priests and three Priestesses bowed as she marched in and Melisandre smiled to them before ordering the door to close. She had absolute faith in the souls of everyone aboard the Lord of Light, but unfortunately there were certain precautions to take for their 'visitors'.

"How fared your efforts, Priestess Laya?"

"Red Voice, on your command we attempted to retrieve five souls of the unbelievers lost in the coup of King's Landing. As you had predicted, many of the attempts suffered...heavy complications and had to be terminated. But in the end, we managed to recover the two prime subjects."

"Excellent," Melisandre knew that to ingratiate herself with the new King, these new pieces were necessary. "Is it too soon to reawaken them for the binding rituals?"

"A few hours, Red Voice," promised the white-haired Priestess.

Melisandre of Asshai could have returned to her quarters and wait, but exceptionally she decided to observe the procedures herself this time. The transformed room was a marvel of R'hllor: great cables, and columns of fluids coursing with red energy. There were sigils and symbols of devotion to R'hllor supplemented the scientific goods discreetly bought in the Free Cities. It had been relatively difficult, as was every genetic-production and cloning facility, but combined with the power of the True God, it gave them an unmatched strength...provided you worshipped the Lord of Light and Life.

Recovering souls if you were an unbeliever was considerably more difficult.

Difficult but not impossible.

The two red matrices emptied slowly of the life liquid and the connections were switched off one by one. Then the two human bodies were slowly expelled from the glassy chrysalis where they had been conceived.

Both males had visages of absolute stupefaction when they opened their eyes and met her. Melisandre savoured their emotions of shock and disbelief. By their limited understanding, what had just been accomplished was just miraculous...and it was not their non-existent Seven who were responsible for their resurrection.

"Rise, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne. Your part in this war is not yet over."

* * *

 **King Viserys III Targaryen, 05.09.300AAC, King's Landing System**

The trumpets clamoured twenty-three times before falling silent and the herald's announcement thundered over the silent hall.

"Hail King Viserys Targaryen, the Third of his Name, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Sectors, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faith, Prince of Summerhall, Lord Protector of Dragonstone, Shield of the Narrow Void, Royal Admiral and Master of King's Landing!"

"ALL HAIL!"

Viserys sat on the throne, never stopping his observation of the assembly in front of him. To his satisfaction, faces of approval and satisfaction were everywhere. Evidently, his decision to move the official crowning in a smaller and more convivial hall was a good choice.

He had decided only five hours ago he was not going to sit on the Iron Throne. His new seat was smaller and had only three steps. It had several rubies and you weren't at risk to bleed on the thousands of blades.

But it wasn't why he had done it.

The Iron Throne, as much as no one had admitted in public for the last century, was a symbol of overwhelming power, made possible by oceans of blood and the fire of dragons. It was the proclamation House Targaryen could reign over the Seven Sectors because they were able to massacre on their own any troublesome bannersmen, separately or together.

The last wars had proved the days of the Conquest were long gone. House Targaryen's dragons were dead and they reigned over Westeros as long as they had a sufficient number of Lords Paramount content with their laws. Pretending anything else was just the dreams of a drug addict.

Viserys had thus decided that his first days had to bring new traditions. Clearly, if he didn't establish them now, in a few moons the weight of past precedents, political infighting and necessity was going to block everything and prevent him from showing he was different from his brother and his father. It would not be proclaimed on the holo-news in such terms, but Viserys needed to strike the metal of the Crown Sector politics before it became cold and inflexible again.

And so Viserys sat on his new throne as the new ceremony was expedited in record time. Lasting four hours, it had to be the shortest coronation of any King ever done. It was also a model of austerity. Viserys obviously didn't agree with many of the Starks and Baratheons policies, but in this case he had shamelessly copied their tactics. All his officers, army, navy or marines, had come in their war uniforms. The guards were in pristine battle-armours. The administrators had been instructed to answer their summons in excellent clothes but ones the smallfolk could wear in extraordinary circumstances. The hundreds of green dragon banners on black fields were modest and not accompanied by emeralds and onyx gemstones.

It was in many ways powder for the eyes. It was also vitally important. Viserys was sadly extremely aware his hold on the capital and the rest of the Crown Sector was fragile – an understatement, if there ever was one. It was why the last hour was spent giving amnesties to the defeated and mutinied troops. Neither his father nor his eldest brother had ordered one in the last two decades, and a merciful series of edict would prove he could be reasonable. Lords and their Houses rarely fought to the end when the enemy had no intentions to annihilate them.

"While the Crown has heard awful rumours about the actions of several other members of House Targaryen, I am prepared to extend amnesties to the Princes and Princes currently massing their forces in foreign Sectors. Should Crown Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys, Prince Joffrey, Princess Visenya, Princess Shiera, Prince Daeron and Princess Baela accept the new Royal authority, their holdings and properties in the Crown Sector won't be forfeited and their lines attainted."

Several of his officers had pressed him to summon all the wayward Royals to King's Landing, but given the precedent offered by the Usurper's Rebellion, he had renounced. Instead he was forcing his nephews and nieces to declare their betrayal themselves. Granted, it was something they would probably do anyway. The Prince of Summerhall was not sure if the North was ever considering crowning a dragon; it was far more likely than they were going to rebel and install the Starks as King in the North again. Winterfell was the exception, alas. If the Admiral of Dragonstone had to bet, his diplomatic couriers sent to Highgarden, Sunspear and Casterly Rock were going to meet on their way announcing the crowning of new Kings and a Queen.

"The realm is in danger, but we will not despair! House Targaryen has ruled the Seven Sectors for three hundred years, and we will not let anarchist elements destroy the lights of civilisation our ancestors paid with their tears and blood!"

The torrent of applause was impressive and after several other bombastic announcements, the crowd progressively left the new throne room. The high commanders and the key members of his new rule stayed, forming several little groups ten metres away before him.

"I suppose we best begin with the situation in the Crown Sector. Lord Ardrian, you are now the High Admiral of the Crown Navy and the Master of Ships. What is the situation in the Crown Sector?"

"I think the short answer is...complicated, your Grace," replied the old man, who had temporarily smiled as his loyalty was rewarded. "In the last hours, our first counter-offensive has forced the surrender of the Bywater Rest, Stokeworth and Driftmark Systems with minimal losses. In the first two cases, the victory was made faster than our most optimistic predictions thanks to certain factors we weren't aware of. The Masterly House of Edgerton was loyal to Prince Joffrey, but was convinced to side with us as soon as he heard the fate of the capital. I'm afraid Lord Manly Stokeworth preferred to die rather than serve your Majesty. The rest of his family is in our custody.

At Bywater Rest, things were even more confusing. The Masterly House of Farring declared for your cause, my King, but the Knightly Houses led by House Follard went to Prince Joffrey. This created a three-way fighting and we were forced to defeat them decisively by orbital strike. The Noble House of Bywater and the Knightly House of Follard have to be considered extinct, unless they were other nobles sent to the Reach I am not aware of."

"And Driftmark?"

"The support of House Sunglass and House Rambton proved primordial in subduing the Velaryon units. The last members of the sea horses are our prisoners and the shipyards were captured intact."

"Good, very good," and unconsciously most Lords and commanders relaxed. With these systems in their hands, the survival of the coup for the next weeks was all but assured. If another faction wanted to take the throne, they would have to bring a massive amount of firepower to the Crown Sector. It was a costly endeavour, and one which was going to take time.

"Our squadrons are as we speak moving on the Langward, Cressey and Chelsted Systems. Given the low level of coordination and the inexistent preparations made by the Admiral and Generals the former Council left in charge, simulations give us odds of seventy percent to capture the entire Crown Sector. Afterwards we will have to make a long pause to overhaul and repair the existing hulls."

Viserys nodded. So far they had been lucky, but when this round of conquests was over, the Crown Navy and Army would have to be ready for the next battles, and given its current state, he didn't fancy its chances against the rest of Westeros.

"Lord Guncer Sunglass?"

"Yes, your Grace?" The Rear-Admiral bent the knee.

"For your loyal service, the Masterly House of Sunglass is to become the Noble House of Sunglass, Masters of the Driftmark System, Lords of the Cosmic Tides and sixty percent of the possessions and the privileges owned by the attainted House Velaryon are yours by law. Rise Lord Guncer, Admiral of the Crown Navy."

It was not the end of the nominations he gave on this session, far from it. Perwyn Frey was elevated Lord Perwyn Rosby of Rosby by his mother's lineage, and was given the very indigestible title of Master of Logistics. Lord Baelor Staunton, who had managed to rally roughly seventy-eight percent of the Sector's armies, was named Crown Marshal and Master of Armies, in replacement of the useless seat of 'Master of Arms'. Ser Justin Massey was confirmed as a General and commanded to restore the ten Behemoths left to active duty as fast as possible. Lord Farring and Lord Edgerton, while not present today, were given the temporary governing rights of the star systems they had helped him seize.

"We will convene a new war council in forty-eight hours and decide to confirm or stop the next offensives. Ser Sal, please give us your best intelligence on the civil situation."

The man he had chosen to serve as the interim Master of Laws took a few steps in the direction of the throne before largely bowing. Unlike most, the black-haired knight known as Ser Sal Blackrock had not been born noble and it was his deeds during the Greyjoy Rebellion – he had been able to capture several towns on Old Wyk with little to no damage. But he had proven capable in his enforcement of the law and was fairly popular.

"Your Grace, we are in a perilous situation. The betrayal of the Master of Whisperers has crippled our intelligence and security systems. I will need months to restore them to a fraction of what they were. The same is true for the entire Sector, and for every planet the problems are multiplied for we can't be sure of if the allegiance of the local authorities to your cause is genuine or faked. I'm afraid that for the next weeks, we will be force to use a lot of stop-gap measures if we want to limit the civil disorder."

"Name three you intend to promulgate in the next forty-eight hours," Viserys prepared himself for bad news and he wasn't disappointed.

"We will have to put back hundreds of thousands mutineer Goldcloaks into service and use them to soak up the casualties in the slums and the urban areas. All the religious fanatics we captured are to be presented in front of a judge and executed before they cause more trouble. The officers and former administrators who refuse to swear allegiance to you must be imprisoned or exiled before they can present themselves as martyrs."

Viserys gritted his teeth for an instant, wondering if the alternative was not more reasonable...but in the end there was no choice.

"Do it. I want the official edicts ready to be signed before sunset."

"Yes, your Grace."

The King on the not-Iron Throne emitted a low groan of exhaustion as Sal Blackrock rushed out of the hall in a hurry. Unfortunately, the day was going to be long and he had several other bad news, pardon several more advisors to listen to.

"Your Grace, for the present time, we are in firmly in control of Galactic Targaryen News and the personnel we have hired for this task is gaining a large public to our cause," announced Ser Varon Darkwood, the new Master of Information. "Our efforts to purge the scandalous corruption plaguing the capital system are popular, and each hour gives us the opportunity to reveal new treacheries from House Buckwell, House Langward, House Velaryon and several other heads of faction. Per your directives, implacable measures have also been taken against slaver rings we tolerated for far too long in our core systems. I'm afraid though we are just cleaning the surface of this pit of illegality and darkness."

So far, so good...well, it was not good, because he would have to replace thousands of men who were utterly incapable to stay honest, but at least this was a progress. He was sure that the anti-corruption efforts were going to continue until his dying day, no matter how many days or years he would spend on the throne before this date. The sins and crimes had sunk too deep in the essence of the capital culture and economy. The last King to have made real efforts on this front was Aegon V, but none of his successors had been particularly interested in following his example.

"The economic situation," Viserys III Targaryen demanded.

Rylian Telmar began his report. Former owner of a merchant company ruined by the avidity of House Velaryon, the brown-haired man and his iconic large beard was the only person in the hall not to have a knighthood title. And for good reason: he had refused all his attempts in the last five years. Rylian considered an honour to be one of the 'smallfolk' and refused to leave their ranks – though his personal fortune made him a wealthy millionaire.

"The economic situation is a disaster, your Grace. Your brother's rule had no oversight whatsoever upon the transstellar companies, the big investors and of course the Noble Houses. Most of the data and figures we have are so false my analysts have laughter attacks when they read them. Taxes were diverted to various 'secret projects' for decades and the administration is a maze of contradictions and inefficient procedures. I don't think anyone realised, and I include my predecessor Master of Coin Lantion Lannister among them, how bad the situation was. We are running a deficit the size of a black hole and the western suburbs of King's Landing have been razed, generating a crisis among the insurance companies. The coup has forced us to close all the major Sector Stock Exchanges and I don't think we will be able to reopen it before ten days. The shares of several industry powerhouses are selling under the cloak at a hundredth of their official prices.

For all intent and purposes, your Grace, we are bankrupt and our system is running on negative numbers every second we speak."

"Solutions?"

"First we have to default every debt we can politically afford to. House Tyrell, House Redwyne and all the banking institutions of the Reach have loaned billions and trillions to the Iron Throne. I say your Majesty has taken the right step. Let's keep the Iron Throne as a museum heirloom, and we reject the reimbursement proposals of our enemies."

"The Lannisters, the Martells, the Vale?"

"The latter two factions did not loan to us, and in the case of House Grafton, it was the Crown giving money to them, not the contrary. I have taken the liberty to cut all subsidies the moment I took my post. The Lannisters...well, King Rhaegar and his Council loaned less money in recent years, but there are long-term loans of trillions of dragons and only their interests have been paid...barely."

Hearing this, it was somewhat a miracle the Seven Sectors had not collapsed economically a decade ago. There was a temptation after that to abdicate and let Aegon and Mace Tyrell handle this mess – they would not be able to erase the debts with a single signature, their own backers would never tolerate it.

"Give me your first emergency scenario," he braced himself for more disgusting and yet necessary measures.

"We default on the debts of the entire Reach bankers, investors and House, save House Hightower and its allies per your will. We cancel the subsidies to the Storm, Vale and River allies your deceased brother. We declare the debts owed to House Lannister null and void, I'm sure our bards can find several high precedents in history to justify this. We abandon the garrison forces of the Iron Sector. We inflict monumental financial penalties on the corrupt, the slavers and the traitors. We empty the coffers, raid the possessions of Langward, Buckwell and all other attainted lines. We have to force the ascension of the new High Septon which will erase the billions we owe to the Faith."

"Will it be enough?" He darkly asked. Rylian and his large brown beard had indeed announced he intended to bring the next best thing to an economic apocalypse to King's Landing and neighbouring systems.

"No, your Majesty, it will not." Rylian Telmar took a great inspiration. "I will be able to save about two thousand trillions dragons that way and it will give me time to save something from the field of ruins we took ownership. But make no mistake, the economy has just been exsanguinated by two decades of ill-management and unbridled military rearmament. We can't default the Essossi debts we have, the risk of them sending raiding squadrons on our planets is too great. The Great Stock Exchanges may well crash in a definite manner if we try to reopen them. And..."

"And on top of that, we're on the eve of another war. Do your duty, Master of Coin."

"Yes, your Grace."

The next couple of hours saw more advisors arrive and then rush away to implement the foundations of the next purges and new royal edicts. The Crown Intelligence Agency and the Secret Police were officially disbanded, not his most difficult decision as the loyal had been decimated and the disloyal had disappeared or were now actively operating against his forces.

The Kingsguard was hereby disbanded; its white cloaks had been soiled and tarnished and he didn't trust them anymore. Barristan Selmy had killed six million Kingslanders in the Behemoth's Fall because he refused to stand down and Preston Greenfield had certainly decided to follow Prince Joffrey instead of his legal orders. The less said about the rest, the better. For now, Viserys' security would be assured by the 15th 'Hellguard' Dragonstone Line Regiment, one of the elite formations he had constantly nurtured and protected since his ascension at Admiral of the star system.

One by one the supplicants and the councillors left, and to his dismay the day was nearly over. He was tired, he wanted to get drunk after listening to this litany of bad news and he had the awful certainty it could have been much, much worse than the semi-nightmare he was facing at the moment.

"Kingship suits you, husband."

Like a shadow, his wife had arrived. She was beautiful, as usual. Lynesse Hightower had been born from a lesser family of Oldtown and her mother had essentially climbed the ladder to Lord Hightower's bed by her seduction skills. Lynesse had golden hairs, pure blue eyes and today she had chosen a gold-white dress from a famous Lysene dressmaker to emphasize her assets.

"I thought I told you to be here for the official coronation."

Lynesse snorted in her usual suave manner.

"You wanted to make the coronation a small and discreet affair. I don't do small and discreet." Long nails caressed his cheek before her faint rosy lips turned into a vicious smirk.

"You have created a hurricane among the ladies of court, husband. I saw thousands of ladies trying to be admitted in my parlour, begging for the liberation of their husbands, lovers, cousins, bothers and so on. They also wanted their money back, by the way."

"I hope they didn't disturb too much Rhaella," his daughter was two years old, and far more precious to him than any of these court turkeys.

"You don't have to worry on this point, she was far more worried about her next meal..." Lynesse expression was maternal for a few seconds. It didn't last. "I went to the Maidenvault and spoke to Cersei Lannister. I wanted to see her face when she learned I had replaced her as Queen."

"How did she take it?" asked Viserys, moderately interested. The Queen – well, former Queen now – had been all but imprisoned for a decade and though her hate for Rhaegar was anything but a secret, the rest of her activities and habits were.

The daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister also represented a sizeable headache. He couldn't release her; the West would take it as a weakness admission, but leaving her here would make him no better than his brother. Another problem without an easy way out.

"She cried of joy and invited her handmaidens to empty near ten bottles of Red Arbor before I left." Lynesse took great pleasure to make a short rendition of the scene, rising fake toasts after fake toasts at the death of the King. "I don't think we need to be very concerned she will torment you for not finding the assassins of her husband."

Thank the Gods, because the killers had evaded pursuit – not that it was a legendary escape, given the level of disorganisation and the rates of desertion during the last hours the Red Keep resisted. They had only the mangled corpse of Rhaegar, his genitals mutilated, sectioned and forced into his mouth after his teeth were removed one by one. And on the wall next to what remained of his body, the assassins had painted in his blood the message 'THE NORTH NEVER FORGETS'.

The Stark soldiers could vicious sneaky buggers when they were sufficiently warmed up, apparently.

"I supposed it amused you for a few hours." Lynesse didn't smell like wine, so she must have not partaken in this 'celebration'.

"Yes, it did. Afterwards I was busy taking many servants in my service and throwing out those who were too long in the employ of Varys and the other former Masters."

"I was not aware Varys' spies were so easily discovered," the Seven knew their lives would be far simpler if it they were...

"Oh they are presenting you like they are fine and upstanding servants, but they are too muscled, too swift, too intelligent and they have that look in their gaze when you asked them something..." his wife made a negative hiss. "And while they talk alright, many of them don't do well in practical things like choosing dresses, combing their hairs or seeing a ruby is a fake."

Varys' agents were betrayed by their lack of fashion knowledge. What had this galaxy gone to?

"And now?"

Lynesse pouted, her impressive blue eyes shining like sapphires under the light of the crystal chandeliers.

"Now I'm bored...my King has no time for me..."

"I have a bankrupt realm to rule you know..."but Lynesse climbed the steps of the throne, and placed one of her fingers over his mouth.

"If you work from dawn to dusk my poor dragon, you will not last a year on this throne."

"What is your suggestion, my Queen?"

In a move that should have been impossible with more traditional robes, Lynesse opened a series of laces to her back and slowly the cloth she wore fell to her feet, revealing she wore nothing underneath. Viserys felt suddenly very glad he had dismissed the guards ten minutes ago.

"I approve your choice to abandon the Iron Throne. It is too dangerous..."purred the youngest daughter of Lord Hightower. "Now let's test your new seat. I am your Queen and I want to feel like one!"

For the first time of the day, Viserys was the one to obey. And it was pleasurable, he had to admit.

* * *

 **Princess Daenerys Targaryen, 05.09.300AAC, Braavos System**

Daenerys didn't like going to the official Braavosi receptions. Too bad, her wishes in this matter were of little importance for the diplomats. When the worthless emissaries of the Iron Throne had negotiated to avoid a war with the Republic of Braavos, Westeros had not been the side in position of force. The Seven Sectors had just experienced the second greatest civil war of its history, only surpassed in violence and divisions by the Dance of Dragons. A conflict with any Great Power of Essos would have been disastrous. The Republic of Braavos had not the men to occupy a large number of Westerosi systems, that much was true. But conventional fleets and armies had never been the pride of the Republic. For those there were sellswords companies, to be bled against the rival Free Planets. No, the strength of Braavos lied in its mighty Deep Space Fleet and its supercarriers. It was a void fleet the like of which only Volantis had the effectives and the ancient marvels of Valyrian technology to counter.

It was unlikely Braavos would ever be able to conquer more than ten star systems should they declare war to the Seven Sectors, active opposition or not. But the Braavosi fleet could hunt in the void all their Deep Space merchant ships. The conventional merchant ships using jump generators were also easy prey when they were outside the inner gravity well of a star. Braavos didn't need to annex Duskendale, King's Landing and Dragonstone to bring the Iron Throne to peace terms. They just needed to destroy its merchant fleet, wait patiently until insurance rates exploded out of control, banks went bankrupt and transstellar mega-companies fired tens of thousands employees. When the very middle-classes of Westeros were completely ruined, destitute and ready to sell their bosses for a third of their salaries, the will of the Noble Houses to pursue a conflict was not going to be the worst problem her brother Rhaegar faced.

Well, in the end the Targaryen envoys had acknowledged the unavoidable. She had been the designated hostage sent there, to travel the Narrow Void as soon as she was able to understand the world around her, and several duties and conditions had been added in the final treaty. Daenerys had seen the thing four times. It was a voluminous book, easily going in the thousand-plus pages.

Returning to the subject of receptions, it had been one of the clauses that once she was sixteen and able to dance, talk and salute in adequate princely manner, she was to go to one of these receptions. The good news, if you could call it like this, was that she wasn't supposed to represent the Seven Sectors or act in any official capacity. Princess Daenerys Targaryen, sister of the King, was not the ambassador to the Republic of Braavos, thanks the hundreds of Gods worshipped at Braavos. This role was given to a cousin noble who was accumulating scandals and problems faster than it should be possible. But then the ambassadors rarely lasted here. This one was the fifth Daenerys had greeted at Braavos and it was unlikely he would be the last.

It never stopped amusing the girls she frequented at the Academy. Essossi ambassadors at Braavos were more likely than not merchant princes renowned for their fortunes and negotiation abilities. Most nations save Westeros were considering a great honour to be an official of a foreign power in the heart of a sea world. In comparison, King's Landing was sending the dregs and the disgraced. At least she hoped it was the dregs.

Daenerys prayed these men weren't the best the realm of the Sunset Quadrant could afford.

"Good evening, Princess Daenerys," said a soft voice, breaking the silence around her.

"Good evening," she answered by reflex and turned to see her interlocutor. It was the Black Pearl of Braavos, Bellegere Otherys. Older by Daenerys by three years, the young woman was one of the most popular courtesans in the high circles of the Braavosi society and it was deserved: between her light brown skin, her black hairs, her delicate stature and her enormous breasts, Bellegere was a vision of beauty. According to the legend, her ancestor –also named Bellegere – had been the lover of Aegon IV the Unworthy and all Black Pearls descended from her. If this was the case, it was well-hidden for the line of the Black Pearls had none of the Valyrian traits on their visage or their bodies.

She and Daenerys were both invited to the same receptions, though for different reasons. Daenerys received them because politics were politics. Bellegere was paid to come by the cream of the merchant princes for exorbitant prices and it was not rare courtesans like her were literally showered with incomparable gifts before, during and after important parties.

The dress her client had chosen for her this evening was red and had to cost a mountain of gold. It was also back-less, which proved once again the courtesans crossed the limit between seduction and indecency without warning.

"A fine gathering, tonight," said conversationally the Black Pearl.

"Indeed," she answered and it was not an exaggeration. Daenerys was used to gatherings of power now, but there were a lot of wealthy and influential families tonight. The Sealord was not present since his health was increasingly bad, but there were many men and women whose purses would have been able to buy a planet or two on a whim.

And since the powerful merchants were there, the courtesans had come in numbers too. Not counting the Black Pearl, there were the Veiled Lady, the Merling Queen, the Daughter of the Dusk, the Nightingale, the Poetess, the Azure Grace, the Laughing Flower, the Rose Kiss and several other famous courtesans whose fame had long spread to Lys, Tyrosh, Westeros and beyond.

"We were not graced with a masked ball, praise the Lady of Waters," Bellegere spoke in a satisfied tone, taking a crystal glass full of black liquor with effortless grace. "House Reyaan was at least wise to avoid this trap."

The glass was inclined negligently in the direction of three men in ostentatious black clothes. With their large bellies and obese members, the Reyaan men looked like they had eaten two or three whales before coming. It didn't stop the crowd from surrounding them.

House Reyaan was rich and influential. Not Lannister-rich, but wealthy enough to be in the top twenty of the Braavosi elite. Not that it was difficult to acknowledge, when the half of the reception was a palace in itself, with paintings and tapestries worth ten fortunes covering the walls, a magnificent painted rotunda over their heads and the glasses of the finest crystal. There was gold, silver and crystal wherever you looked at the decoration, complemented by artwork of renowned masters, including paintings, sculptures and gemstones.

It was said that at every second, the Reyaan keyholder – also a magister in his own right – had five thousand mega-conveyors sailing through the Narrow, Jade and Summer Voids at every instant. In this instance, Daenerys wasn't sure they were untrue.

They had also an unpleasant reputation and Daenerys didn't like them at all. Fatness and greasy-like appearance aside, the Reyaans had their greedy hands in two of the last five mini-wars of the Disputed Planets. And there were more worrying whispers behind the doors. Murmurs these merchant princes had participated in military technology transfers to Westerosi rebels... actions which were certainly not in the best interest of the Targaryen dynasty...

But they were the first reception this month of importance, and she was of the advice it was best to do this chore early in the month before being forced to go to a more unpleasant location.

"Where is your companion?" In general, benefactors of a courtesan wanted to stay as close as possible from her. After sending enough to feed a hundred thousand families, they understandably wanted some return from their very expensive investment.

"He went to one of the collection rooms...he wants to speak to you in private."

That didn't reassure her. Collection rooms were rarely opened to non-family members, and since the Reyaan family was entire present in front of her eyes, the Black Pearl's benefactor had to be one of their close allies and of the two-three names Daenerys knew, none were what she could call peace-oriented.

On the other hand, if she didn't go, she was sooner or later going to have to pay her respects to their Reyaan hosts, something she was trying to avoid. After seeing them stare like pigs at her body, Daenerys always felt the need to take a long shower.

"Why not? Lead the way."

While Braavosi had not the equivalent of the laws of hospitality, if someone came without a weapon at a reception – and it was her case – said person could not be challenged to a duel or provoked into an ambush. The moment her green heels had touched the ground of the Reyaan domain, any wound or incident threatening her life and honour would shame the merchant-princes for ten generations.

Bellegere didn't really lead the way through the huge stairs in pink marble leading them to the first floor and the collection rooms of the Reyaans. The Black Pearl had at her feet incredibly tall red heels, and it was nearly impossible to walk with those on a long distance. As such, they progressed side by side, the Braavosi woman showing not a sign of discomfort and continuing to move like a professional dancer.

Drawing a golden key she carried in a necklace around her, her guide opened silently a large wooden door where the arms of House Reyaan had been carved in a two metres-high representation. The locker was shaped like a dragon and for a strange reason Daenerys didn't like it.

What was inside, however, was pleasure for the eyes. The large hall serving as a collection room was full of ancient artwork from the Valyrian period. Intellectually, it was not a surprise. Like the magisters of the other Free Planets, Braavosi loved taking for their own aggrandisement souvenirs of the ancient Freehold, Bastard Daughter of Valyria or not. What surprised her was that there were so many concentrated in one place. There were tapestries, sculptures and old banners. There were deactivated parts of techno-magic, that no one knew how to activate anymore. And there were spears and battle-armours, some having an edge or an image of Valyrian steel. It was a collection millions of students of Valyrian history would give both hands and one leg to own.

"I didn't think..."

"There is an exhibition in two days and Houses Reyaan, Lihes and Fregar in addition to several lesser contributors have graciously accepted to show some of their best pieces for this exceptional event."

Ah, so the abundance was explained. This was not a Valyrian collection; it was the sum of four or five Houses' efforts. But as much as she did her best to move her eyes away from it, her purple eyes came back to the object placed on a platinum stand.

It was a great black dragon egg, the very colour of onyx and so perfect it looked like the rest of the room was full of insignificant baubles.

"Who owns the egg?" She asked, trying and failing to turn her eyes away from this last remnant of the dragonlords' glory.

"I do," Daenerys threw her a surprised look. Bellegere was far from poor, of course, but... "It was a gift of Aegon IV to my ancestor."

And suddenly Daenerys felt an incredible torrent of shame pouring in her heart and head. Of course it had to be the Unworthy who had given away this Targaryen legacy. Dragon eggs were worth king's ransoms and this whoremonger had given it away for taking liberties with a Braavosi courtesan.

After a minute where shame and anger fought inside her, Daenerys finally shrugged and began to look at the rest of the collection. The dragon egg had been petrified for at least one hundred and fifty years and the dragons were extinct; by this point the fact a noble or another had possession of a dragon's egg was inconsequential.

"When was this sculpture created?"

"Our experts think it was about one thousand and three hundred years ago. It was a representation of the Valyrian goddess Syrax," spoke a deep masculine voice behind her.

Daenerys abandoned her contemplation of the Freehold artwork to look at the newcomer and she groaned internally. Blonde-haired and green eyes, here came one of the most powerful men of Braavos. His name was Tormo Fregar, and despite his relatively young age – nearly forty years old – he was one of the top contenders to succeed the Sealord should the current incumbent die. He was also one of the firebrands who had long supported a more energetic stance towards the Seven Sectors in recent years.

At least he behaved like a gentleman she supposed, as Tormo Fregar bowed largely before kissing the tips of her fingers.

"Your beauty is truly an exquisite vintage, Princess," the merchant-prince proclaimed with the sort of voice you couldn't help but trust. "This green dress is allowing you to bring the lights of the Goddesses on this poor world..."

"Flatterer," she replied with a little smirk, before shrieking as her hands seemed to cover themselves in flames.

One second later, she tried to calm herself. The flames had disappeared once more. They were just an illusion, yes. Then the flames returned and suddenly Daenerys found herself...elsewhere. It was a dark room and it looked like one of these cultist lairs in frightening tales. She saw a silver-haired man looking like an asylum inmate fall, massacred by many blades and silhouettes in grey battle-armours.

And then the vision disappeared and Daenerys heard the voices of Tormo Fregar and Bellegere Otherys call her, there was an alert siren screaming and footsteps ringing in the distance. Why was she on the ground?

"Princess, princess!"

"I'm..." why were the words so difficult? "I'm...fine." The world appeared less luminous than it had been instants ago. What had happened to her? There were cracks every time she tried to move and she sincerely hoped she had not ruined something centuries-old in her fall.

"You don't look fine at all," replied the Braavosi man in a concerned tone. "I don't know what happened to you, your eyes and hands seemed suddenly aflame and..."

The merchant-prince had a comical expression on his face and Daenerys was about to laugh when she noticed the cracks had ceased. And raising her head, she saw the reason of Fregar's stupefaction. On the platinum stand, the black egg had utterly exploded and a small reptilian figure was fixing them with merciless eyes.

No, it was not fixing them.

It was fixing her.

"By all the gods and demons..."

Dragons were extinct. Every child of Westeros and Essos knew it. Until today. Until now.

"Oh brother, what have you done?"

And for the first time in more than one hundred and fifty years, the roar of a fire dragon resonated high and loud in the air, triumphant and conquering.

* * *

 _When the ink of the peace treaty dried up at Maidenpool, civil war in the Vale Sector was not unavoidable. Lord Jon Arryn and the rebel cause had their core planets completely untouched by war, the loyalists like House Grafton had suffered tremendously and generally the Vale soldiers had fought superbly during the Usurper's Rebellion. There was little popular will to disagree with the Master of Eyrie or to voice concerns the Old Falcon had been wrong defending his honour when Aerys II had proved beyond doubt he was an insane tyrant._

 _But in the following years, the financial and political support House Targaryen poured in House Grafton and every Noble House dissatisfied with House Arryn's rule rebuilt an opposing block and fanned the flames of dissent once more. On a different front, King Rhaegar and Crown Prince Aegon scored an enormous coup by rallying the Heir of the Vale Robin Arryn and Jon Arryn's wife Lysa to their side._

 _In reality, it proved nothing but. House Grafton may have rallied many Houses to the loyalist banner like Houses Lynderly, Waynwood, Hersy and Hardyng but it wasn't a game-breaker. These nobles had agreed to break their allegiance to their Lord Paramount, but the rapport of force was remaining largely in Jon Arryn's hand. Many of the most experimented Grafton officers had died in the Usurper's Rebellion, the Greyjoy Rebellion or were busy crushing the repeated insurrections in the Iron Sector. Alas for them, on the other side Lord like Yohn Royce, Horton Redfort, Benedar Belmore and their cadre of staff officers were very much alive and while they were far from young, the fact all these men had survived countless battles to arrive to 300AAC was a warning in itself._

 _And then there was Jon Arryn, third of the Warlords, certainly one of the most accomplished politicians and generals, an eighty years-old Lord Paramount who had fought and survived every crisis House Targaryen had thrown his way._

 _When you think about it these poor Hardyng bastards were really unlucky to be so close to the Eyrie..._

Extract from the Last Flight of the Old Falcon by Arthur Stone, 315AAC.

* * *

 **Ser Eddison Tollett, 05.09.300AAC, Hardyng Hill System**

Covered with carcasses of exploded tanks, crashed flyers and dead soldiers, the plains of House Hardyng stank. Edd had known many things smelling like shit before today, but this smell...it was awful. It was not only the corpses, the acid smokes and the crows eating the flesh of the dead. It was not the sheer atmosphere of desolation. It was not the cloud-covered sky. There was something...something he wasn't able to describe. Maybe it was the death and despair which had left their mark on this field of death. But he doubted it.

"Smile, Dolorous," shouted one of the soldiers had assigned to his protection. "We are not going to the Seven Hells today!"

"Careful," he replied darkly. "The omens are dark and the shadow of death isn't far from us..."

Benjen Lorn rolled his large shoulders, and put back his helmet on his head.

"You worry too much. The Hardyngs have sent most of their forces to Gulltown. They haven't anything left to counter-attack."

"So our doom will await us at Newkeep."

"Continue to be pessimistic, and even death will flee away from you, Dolorous."

They activated the dorsal reactors of their battle-armours Mark 8 'Falcon' at the same time, followed by about sixty other men of Grey Glen and they flew over the last hill, flying over more and more destruction.

The dead of the Hardyng were everywhere. In the first instants of the surprise assault, the Hardyng forces had sallied out of their barracks in a massive charge to stop the Arryn, Tollett and Egen veterans from gaining a foothold near their capital. It had failed. Everywhere his visual sensors could carry, the blue armours half-painted with the red and black cross of treachery were lying dead. Edd didn't know what the Hardyngs had been promised, but it had better be good for the wrath of the higher-ups now was terrible once roused. A rapid glance at a Sector Map was sufficient to realise House Hardyng had been the sole traitors of the Western Vale. Everyone had known the East was filling its pockets with Targaryen gold, but the West had been confident they remained true and honourable, loyal to the Falcon Throne and the Old Man.

For hours, Edd Tollett, Benjen and the rest of their company patrolled on the plains and the hills. Hardyng Hill was not a bad world, with all this greenness and its small mountains, he decided. Of course, there had to be some incredible darkness behind this peaceful appearance. Otherwise, why would have they decided to embrace the madness of the dragons?

The afternoon was ending when the Generals summoned them back in a proper parade formation. Thousands and thousands of Arryn, Egen, Tollett, Corbray and countless other Noble, Masterly and Knightly Houses trampled a ground the siege engineers had just levelled with their gigantic machines. There had to be nearly three hundred thousand infantry in neat lines and all had participated in the punishment of House Hardyng.

Great holo-screens were raised and orbital transports descended in front of them. After the usual protocols, their Lord Paramount arrived in front of the cameras and soon his old but noble face could be seen by all.

"Soldiers of the Vale! I am proud of you! When I called you to arms to punish this treachery, you answered without delay and crushed the rebels! I will never forget your loyalty!"

This was very well and good, but what were they going to do when the Iron Throne declared them all traitors and sent millions of men in this direction? Today the Hardyngs were the traitors, but next day it could be them...

Edd didn't pay really attention to the rest of the speech. Several Generals and Knights were rewarded for their high deeds, the troops would receive a nice bonus added to their monthly wage. Then the Old Falcon stopped speaking and a woman was brought in chains next to him.

"Allow her to speak," said Lord Jon Arryn, with an expression where no smile could be found.

As the gag was removed, the woman threw a torrent of insults which would have made a spaceman blush. As the screens focused on her, the fact the woman was ugly could not be hidden. A lot of her mascara and cosmetic artifices had trickled on her cheeks, nose and the upper part of her dress, but she hadn't been especially pretty in the first place. Her nose was too big, her hairs were an ugly mix of brown and what you could see of her body was enough to tell that despite her relative young age – thirty years old or so – the noblewoman was well on her way to become obese.

"I allowed you to speak by courtesy, Lady Hardyng," the Lord Paramount's declaration cut through her shouts like a blade. "You will be polite or the gag will return to its place."

"Oh, the Lame Falcon is not happy a Lady is telling him how horrible he is?"

Jon Arryn didn't move a finger or any other part of his body, but the impression gained by the army was that he was making a lot of effort to not raise his eyes to the sky.

"Do you know how many young men died for your monstrous ambition, Tyrant of the Eyrie?"

"Three thousand and two hundred soldiers for my side, over one hundred and forty-five thousand for yours," the calm reply stunned the Lady for a few seconds before she began to laugh hysterically.

"You lie! You lie and you do it badly, traitor! My commanders have slaughtered hundreds of thousands of your men! And soon all your cowards and your butchers will be put down like the rabid dogs they are! My husband and my cousins will come back and they will decapitate you with Lord Grafton and his new fleet!"

"It is entirely possible, of course," the tone of Lord Jon Arryn told in an evident manner how likely he believed it was. "But whether your husband manages to find back his way here or not, your House has betrayed its oaths."

"The oaths we have sworn to the Targaryens are far more valuable than the words spoken to an old fool who has lost heir after heir and is now on the eve of senility!"

"Yes, I see this...and for this admission, I strip House Hardyng of its nobility title, its possessions and its privileges. For as loyalty must be rewarded, punishment must be enacted for the oath-breakers and the traitors. Hardyng Hill in time will have its name changed, and my administration will return this planet to compliance until I am satisfied and another Noble House can be elevated for these lands."

"Your own son will kill you and erase all your decrees," and by the defiant behaviour, the woman really believed this.

"Perhaps, but you will not be here to see this."

For the first time, the ugly woman's face contorted with fear.

"I will swear the vows of the septa, I know..."

"No." Suddenly, Jon Arryn looked more dangerous and towering, as a massive double axe was brought by one of his squires. "I do not trust an oath from you or any of your treacherous friends."

"Lord Grafton will gut you like a pig! Your Robin will piss on your grave! You wife has cuckolded you a hundred times in your marital bed!"

"Have you finished?"

"Yes, I have. Order your executioner to come and let's finish this."

But their liege did not give any command to that effect. Instead, he turned to face the army. He spoke to them and at that moment despite the dark destiny waiting for them, Edd felt proud to serve a man like this one.

"Years ago, I had a ward. This ward had little Andal blood flowing in his veins and very different customs and principles than we Valemen take for granted. One of the most interesting traditions I remembered was the idea of personal responsibility. If the harvests are good, then it is the duty of the noble to store extra-food and reward his smallfolk, for this surplus will be useful in more trying times. If a call to arms is sounded, it is the Lord's duty to armour himself and choose the best soldiers to go to war and win the battles. And if a criminal is caught...it is the Lord's duty to hear his words, pronounce his judgement and cut the life thread of the law-breaker."

The Old Falcon seized the double axe and raised it with a grunt of effort before approaching the bewildered Lady Hardyng again.

"For too long the Vale has relied on executioners to do the ugly work. I will not make the same mistake!"

The proclamation was followed by hundreds of thousands approval screams and the Vale army shouted harder as the head of the traitor rolled to the feet of the officers.

* * *

 **Princess Shiera Targaryen, 05.09.300AAC, Castlewood System**

Shiera was bored. The escape from King's Landing had been terrifying and exciting at the same time, no doubt about it. But once they had reached orbit and the light cruiser had accelerated to the jump point at full power, it had been over. Protocol had returned with all celerity and they had been escorted to their cabins.

She wasn't going to complain about the cabin themselves; they were very nice and listening the guards' talks, the Targaryen Princess had learned these were the quarters the Western Navy set aside for its junior squadron commanders when they used these small warships as flagships.

But the cabins were all they were authorised to see. Three times per day they were escorted to the dining room where they ate with Uncle Gerion...and the 'excitement' ended there. The light cruiser was doing its best to convey the impression they were just one of the many starships fleeing the eruption of violence at the capital. In turn this meant a minimum of communications with the outside, and the soldiers and the navy officers were at a high state of readiness if their ship had to fight its way to the Deep Den System.

Since it was a military ship in the first place, it meant there were few distractions and games. Daeron and she had searched the room for several hours, but they had found no interesting holo-devices to watch or play with. Whatever the Lannister officers did in their quarters, they didn't leave it in their cabins once they were transferred to other flagships. There were no mysterious coded messages to decipher. There was no information on what was happening at King's Landing. They had just their own beds with the embroidered Lannister lion and a space soberly decorated in red.

There was nothing to do but wait for their arrival at Deep Den, when they would be free to transfer to a bigger ship with more acceptable accommodations. And by the Crone, it couldn't come fast enough, for Daeron was progressively becoming unbearable. Her little brother had thousands of questions, and Shiera replying 'I don't know' to most of them was only encouraging him to find others or to repeat them after one hour or two. Daeron also regularly demanded to see tutors, servants and everyone they knew in the Red Keep, which was of course impossible...

"Shiera, you must have some games in this coffer..."

Fortunately, she stopped him before he had the time to do more than plunge one hand into the container where she had stored several of her most expensive possessions.

"These objects are not to play with, Daeron," she informed her baby brother with a patience disappearing minute after minute. "The objects in this coffer are our family legacy."

Included in it were several jewels of Mother, some gemstones and artwork which had been gifted for her birthdays and official ceremonies and other things. Shiera would have loved to bring more, but unlike dresses and the like, letting out treasures of House Targaryen out of the Red Keep attracted too much attention.

"Show me! Show me!"

Shiera sighed before succumbing. For the next hour, she showed the jewels to Daeron. His favourite was without contest the set of rubies and emeralds Queen Cersei Lannister had once worn during her marriage, a fabulous necklace of platinum and gold linking the jewels together. There had been a gold tiara going with it, but Shiera had not found it before their departure.

"And the last box?"

Shiera murmured a combination of High Valyrian and presented her eye in front of the visual security system. The recipient opened, revealing what looked to be from afar a superb gold stone. Except it wasn't one.

"It's a dragon egg..."

It was. This one had been offered to Shiera by the King. To her best knowledge, every child of the Targaryen family save Daeron had received one days after their birth...her little brother had not, for in the days of the Greyjoy Rebellion their genitor had royally ignored them and the King of Westeros had never taken great importance to correct this detail when he had returned victorious.

Well no, this wasn't exact. Rhaenys had received an egg as the eldest, but when she had been spirited away to Dorne, the egg had remained with her. Visenya's twin had never been to the capital, as the royal exchange had been constantly delayed year after year and while an egg had been presented at one ceremony, it had soon returned to the high-security vaults. Prince Viserys had never been offered one too. And Princess Daenerys had been sent to Braavos without touching one.

Aegon, Joffrey and Visenya had theirs, however. But those of the two Princes and the Princess had likely remained at the capital...since they were petrified decades and decades ago, there was no point travelling with an egg which was worth several billions at the current market's price. She caressed it for several minutes before delicately handing it to Daeron.

"It is warm..."

"Don't say things like this..." Shiera rolled her eyes. Unless you plunged an egg into a fire, it was staying at a low temperature. But when she took it from the hands of her little brother, she was quite happy to wear silk gloves, for the golden-yellow scaly object was burning and let it fall on her bed with a small cry.

There was a loud thud, and for several seconds Shiera was horrified at the idea of having broken this treasure, but as cracks spread from top to bottom and the surface, it was evident nothing she had done was responsible for this event. The egg...it was hatching.

It was impossible, and yet unless she was the victim of a massive hallucination, it was the reality. Smoke appeared and a golden snout soon emerged, quickly followed by a lithe body as the egg disintegrated and the dragon breathed the air of the warship.

"Dragon!" Daeron, ignoring all instincts of conservation, rushed towards the newborn reptile but the tiny dragon avoided his embrace and took flight to slam in her arms before growling and clacking its maw. Somehow, Shiera felt a rush of energy and then...hunger.

"Princess, we have translated in the Deep Den System...what in the Seven Hells is happening here?"

The door of their quarters had opened to reveal Uncle Gerion...which for once had a genuine shocked expression on his face looking at her. Well may be not at her, rather towards the growling dragon in her arms trying to see where his first meal was hidden.

"Err...this is exactly what it looks like?"

* * *

 **Lady Calla Peake, 05.09.300AAC, Starpike System**

Calla was the only person in the vast war conference room to not wear the green uniform of the Reach armed forces with gold insignia. Usually, she felt amusement. The Seven forbid she was admitted to give her own voice to military strategy when she had to be one of the rare persons in the Sector to realise how fucked the Sector was.

Today, she felt concern. Starpike had suddenly been thrown on the frontlines of a new war, and the reactions since the news of the defeat of Nightsong had spread were discouraging in the extreme. The Reach officers had been high on the drug of victory and narcissism for a decade. They had woken up yesterday with the knowledge their cause was unassailable, and they had gone to their beds confused and in shock.

Now that they had the time to recover, part of their arrogance was back. After all, the warships which had just been massacred were Storm warships, and everyone knew the designs of the Storm Sector were incredibly inferior to those of the Reach, right? More importantly, the commanding Vice-Admiral had been a bastard of dubious reputation, and what could you expect when you put someone like this in charge of your fleet? It would have been better if a proper blue-blooded officer had been given command, and victory would have been certain if the Reach ships of the line had been there.

Talks like these were very common in the streets and the vast hemicycle where dozens of officers waited for the war briefing to begin.

The Starpike war room was somewhat classical by Reach standards. The officer in charge was granted a desk at mid-height and a massive tactical display, and faced the hemicycle-shaped assembly of green uniforms. By tradition, the Lord and Lady of Starpike were seated behind the speaker, vast and richly elaborated seats which rightly deserved the throne designation.

In another system, maybe the Lord of the Noble House would have made a speech, but the Lord Paramount and his cronies in far-away Highgarden were far too unfriendly with the nobility of Starpike to allow such a thing. No, today the General and the Admiral respectively in charge of the 'Marches 2nd Grand Army' and the 'Marches Mobile 6th Task Force' were going to impress them with their genius.

And if Calla felt sarcastic, it was because three days ago, said imbeciles were affirming in public Nightsong could resist years to a frontal assault of the Dornish fleet. At the light of recent events, their predictions had proven a bit optimistic.

Calla exchanged a sardonic book with her husband to her right, but didn't open her mouth to share her conclusions. In this open setting, the scrutiny was at its greatest intensity and she had counted over seven officers and four servants focusing on her and the Master of Starpike to the exception of anything else. It was not counting the myriad of listening devices and other methods of spying undoubtedly deployed at this very moment.

One might think the Tyrells would take far less precautions on the internal front, but one had to take into account the Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna Tyrell. The woman was notoriously suspicious of anyone not drinking at the fountain of idiocy created at the heart of the Reach.

This was why the starships built and crewed by men of Starpike weren't currently in orbit or guarding the jump point of Nightsong. These starships – two ships of the line and three battlecruisers – were at Highgarden, welcoming the Crown Prince and wasting the money of the middle-classes in frivolities and disgusting demonstrations of power while Nightsong discovered the joys of Dornish rule. And they had been replaced by Tyrell bootlickers, who certainly weren't the most alert of men. By the time their task force – three ships of the line and five battlecruisers – was ready to move, the Battle of Nightsong was over and Dornish ships of the line had been positioned to intercept any sally in the Storm star system.

Now the question was what idiocy they had brainstormed in their spare time. By the looks of it, several local officers and her husband wondered the same thing. The Peake officers in charge of the fixed defences – Mace Tyrell and his mother had not the power to replace those with their own men – had been anything but impressed with their reaction times and their tactical skills. The few which had been invited in this war room tried very hard not to show their dread.

At last – five minutes later than the agreed hour – Admiral Ser Gaston Leygood and General Ser Bastian Oldflowers entered and made their way to the speaker's desk. Both were in their great uniforms, the green of the cloth disappearing in many emplacements under the large gold decorations. They carried themselves with an air of dignity and assurance you would almost believe they were able to find their way to the toilets from their flag bridge without a map.

For the officers eager to speak of strategy, Calla was sorry. The Oldflowers scion began his speech by a long prayer to the Warrior and the Father, demanding their divine assistance to defeat the Snake-Whore – it was apparently the very unoriginal nickname they had found for Rhaenys Targaryen. Then there was a recount of the Nightsong events – Tyrell sauce. For those who weren't in the know, it meant the enemy was accused of heresy, treachery, underhanded ways and about everything possible – and a few things which were not – Vice-Admiral Rolland Storm was lambasted for his bastard birth and the rest of the Nightsong officers were praised for their 'gallant defence against overwhelming odds'.

This gave her the envy to laugh, honestly. Seven Hells, they were at war now! And when you were at war, everything was becoming divided in 'acceptable today' and 'not yet acceptable' tactics. You didn't waste your time on the social structure of a Sector or the legitimacy of one's birth. What they really needed was to investigate the behaviour of the officers at fault, study the Nightsong debacle and the Dornish new weapons and establish a counter-strategy to ensure this first defeat was not going to become the standard every time a Dornish commander attacked a Reach system.

It went without saying that her opinion was not those of the two men turning her back to her.

"Due to the Marches Mobile 6th Task Force's presence, the Dornish whore has renounced to test our mettle at Starpike. This shows once again the Martell and their viper-whores are unable to truly conquer our fortresses when they are defended by the might of Highgarden and its bannersmen."

There was so many things wrong with this Calla didn't know where to begin. But if she had to give it a try...the Dornish capital ships had not refused to engage the Leygood-commanded task force. They had refused to engage the modern Peake star-forts, their hundreds of platform defences, their considerable minefields with proximity warheads and the thousands of short-range laser bombs. Task force or no task force, the force which had flattened the Nightsong Admirals would have taken horrific losses to take the outer shell of the Starpike defences.

"Unless the Snake-Whore is ready to lose her entire fleet in a suicidal assault, there will be no attack from Nightsong in this direction. In the short-term, the security of this system is not in question and I have no doubt the orbital and planetary industry will provide great contribution to the war effort."

Some of her inclination must have shown, for her husband placed his left hand on her right. Calla gave a thin smile of circumstance, before discreetly giving him a direct look on her breasts. The black robe she wore today was more conservative than what she chose on a day-per-day basis, but its cleavage had been slightly modified for her purpose. The lustful look Lord Titus gave her gave her a warm feeling of satisfaction.

"At this hour, the 6th Task Force has concentrated three ships of the line, five battlecruisers..."

Her husband was not the man she would have chosen for herself, that much was true. Titus was old, had plenty of scars courtesy of the last wars and he was rather bear-like with his brown beard, his brown mane and his heavy hairiness everywhere.

Calla didn't love him.

But then love was a luxury in arranged marriage, and often the source of unnecessary complications.

"The Marches 2nd Grand Army fields four million men, divided in four field armies of excellent past services and reputation..."

Lord Titus Peake and she shared many goals and ambitions, which was arguably better. They both wanted an end to the Tyrell domination of the Reach and their hate of Olenna Tyrell had been sealed in blood. For their mutual pact, all she had to do was to give him an heir...and since he was experimented and patient with her in their bed, Calla saw no reason to deny him this.

She had other ambitions and another husband for the future, but Lord Titus Peake was already old and she could wait for a few years. For now, Starpike had the potential to be a bastion of stability and prosperity against the enemies arriving from every direction.

"...and the Dornish forces have profited from the cowardice of Lord Selmy and Lord Wagstaff's cousins. Instead of fighting as their oaths demanded of them, these 'Storm Lords' have taken their warships and their best troops before fleeing their planets and taking refuge in their neighbours' fortresses. The Lord of Harvest Hall has escaped to Gallowsgrey and the senior Knights of Wagstaff's March have demanded the protection of Lord Dondarrion."

Calla wondered what the Admiral had expected Lord Selmy to do. The Stormlander, if his order of battle could be trusted, had one armoured cruiser and a couple of battlecruisers to defend his world. The enemy forces had tens of thousands new starfighters, these new ion-cannon battlecruisers and several ships of the line nobody knew anything about.

Fleeing and capitulating were the only reasonable choices. In his place, Calla would have done the same thing. Why die for King Rhaegar Targaryen and Lord Paramount Jon Connington when you knew pertinently they weren't going to do the same thing for you and will probably profit from the occasion to replace you by one of their supporters?

"This leaves the frontiers of the Reach vulnerable, even assuming the defences of Gallowsgrey hold against the Dornish."

By the tone conveyed, Admiral Gaston Leygood thought the Storm warships stopping anything bigger than a malfunctioning satellite would be miraculous. The tactical display, centred on the star of Starpike, shifted north-east to focus on another familiar frontier system.

"Because the Stormlanders are unable to defend their Marches, Ashford is now incredibly vulnerable."

Ah yes, the good old-fashioned strategy of blaming the absent for their own failures.

"The sneak attacks and genocidal actions of the Sunspear whores have placed unexpected strains on our deployments but we still have four ships of the line between one and three jumps away from Ashford. We propose to this assembly a new move: gather these capital warships at the jump point to Harvest Hall and let them form a new battle-squadron with the 6th Task Force. With seven ships of the line and eleven battlecruisers, we will have the strength to retake Harvest Hall, stop the perfidious Dornish ravages and prepare the reconquest of Nightsong."

There were some cheers and applauses coming from the Leygood, Oldflowers, Bridge, Hightower and Tyrell officers massed in the hemicycle. But a large minority was hesitant, and next to them not one of the Peake officers smiled.

Calla for herself was staying quiet after hearing this web of lies, stupidity, and insubordination. Admirals and Generals in times of war were always granted large and broad authority. As much as anyone didn't enjoy hearing it, the very nature of galactic warfare made it unavoidable. When a captain of a cruiser could wait the arrival of a convoy for weeks in the void and an ambush could be delayed for months, high-ranked soldiers were by necessity forced to rely on their own judgement. This was normal, and had to be one of the rare practises every Sector Navy had in its manuals.

It was not intended as a free pass for dreams of glory. Admiral Gaston Leygood and General Bastian Oldflowers – she was going to forget the 'Sers' for they were not worthy of it – had been commanded to garrison Starpike and probably keep an eye on its troublesome Lord and Lady. Somehow, she didn't think Lord Mace and his friends had written the orders for their subordinates to launch an offensive two jumps away against the entire Dornish Navy.

To her suspicious mind, it looked like the new traitor-Queen Rhaenys Targaryen had delivered a magnificent bait to the Reach commanders...and the lackeys of Highgarden were ready to bite deeply in their thirst for glory and renown.

This was bad. If the objective of the Dornish was really to shatter the Reach, a failed offensive at Harvest Hall would leave more or less Starpike, Ashford, Cockshaw Plains and Grassy Vale without warships to defend them. Of these four stellar frontier paths, only Starpike had the defences to truly stop cold from every direction their enemies. And it could create a cascade of defeats. The line Starpike-Dark Dell-Hutcheson- Horn Hill was heavily fortified and its defenders had not abandoned their old martial traditions, but without the warships parading and sailing prettily around Highgarden, they couldn't counter-attack. As for the rest, maybe Cider Hall and Longtable could repulse big assaults. The rest would fall like a clay castle against a super-earthquake.

It was funny how this worst-case scenario had somehow been missed by the minds of the glory-hounds. When a purely advisory vote was called, the Tyrell-Leygood appointees and their loyal servants all voted in favour of the new plan. The Starpike officers all voted against. Lord Titus and she voted against too, not that their opponents seemed bothered by their opposition. You didn't need to read their thoughts to know the ambitious young men and their elders wanted a big share of the spoils. Obviously, the great defeats of Houses Caron, Selmy and Wagstaff were evident signs at least three planets were going to possibly require new management and this was nothing compared to the prize Dorne represented...

"We will not let the traitorous bitch who has betrayed her dynasty destroy a decade of unequalled prosperity and unity! The Seven and the Just are with us! To war!"

"TO WAR!" answered the assembly some with all the air in their lungs, others far more slowly and unenthusiastically.

"TO WAR!"

"WAR AND GLORY!"

"WAR AND THE KING!"

"To war," Calla murmured, thinking her predictions had been entirely false, after all. If the Lannisters and one or two other claimants jumped in now, the Tyrells were going to be lucky to hold for half a year, not fourteen months.

* * *

 **Princess Visenya Targaryen, 05.09.300AAC, Winterfell System**

Running in the home of a Noble House was an activity devoid of risk. Unless you were doing it in the old fortress of Winterfell. Visenya had sadly discovered it this morning as she made her morning work-out.

The problem was not that someone had hacked the defence turrets in a vulgar attempt to assassinate her. She had not thousands of barbarians like one saw in medieval holo-series brandishing axes and shouting they were going to rape her.

No, she was 'just' pursued by a very enthusiastic pack of direwolves. For a reason which had ninety percent of probability to originate with a certain Arya Stark and her four-legged companion, the Targaryen Princess was pursued by the numerous furry auxiliaries of House Stark. So far, she was winning the race. The narrow corridors and the series of bends was giving her the advantage, as the direwolves often rammed each other when the leading animal tried to slow down to change course.

But she was tiring – after near an hour of running, her first hope to distance the pack had long died of exhaustion – and if she wanted to avoid the dreaded tongue-licking of the furry beasts, Visenya was going to need a perfect solution in the next minutes before they found a short-cut she didn't know.

Otherwise she was going to require ten showers to get risk of the musk odour which always came with the cousin of the wolves.

She was not far from her new bedroom when she met in one of the corridors Icefyre, the dragon of her little sister.

"Saved!" she exclaimed, but to her stupefaction, the draconic representative screeched when the direwolves came into view before taking flight and escaping in the opposite direction.

"Hey, come back!" Visenya shouted. "You're a dragon! You are superior to these balls of furs!"

But no imprecation or insult was apparently good enough and she had to continue running to her destination...seconds before arriving to the final door, the direwolves all stopped like a single trained dog as they saw a holographic replay of Lord Eddard Stark's latest speech.

Not believing her chance, Visenya closed the metallic door. Seconds later, loud shocks against the wall told her she had escaped a fate of saliva and fur.

"You should have gone to the stadium, if you wanted direwolf-less exercise," the voice of her twin made her jump on her feet.

"Baela! This is my room!"

"Yes, and you really need to close it when you leave, otherwise the direwolves are trying to put their muzzles everywhere and believe me, the servants need hours of work to remove the smell."

Clad in the Northern military uniform, her twin had taken one of the available chairs and was eying in a disinterested manner a holo-magazine of aircars.

"Your dragon is a coward, by the way. She fled once again against the direwolves."

"Bah, in one or two months Icefyre will be bigger than the adults...and she will probably still flee," Baela admitted with reluctance under her piercing stare. "The direwolves are very much pack animals, and they made my dragon understood its place from the very beginning. And Arya encourages Nymeria..."

"And Nymeria encourages Arya..."

It was a vicious and terrible cycle which was going to make Westeros tremble to its foundations. May the Seven, the Old Gods, the Valyrian Gods and whatever benevolent and war-like deities protected them from adult-Arya.

Visenya fell on an empty chair with a groan and removed her running shoes.

"I am going to take a shower," she told her sister. "We still have five hours before leaving right?"

"Yes, but we have the possessions you take with you to prepare."

"I have prepared my affairs, thank you very much." The pilot in her was offended. Visenya pointed the three middle-sized bags in the corner. "This is barely one tenth of the things authorised for Lieutenants in the Crown Sector..."

"They authorise the Lieutenants to come with that much?" Her twin seemed genuinely horrified. "Unless these bags are all different type of uniforms, there's no way it would be accepted by any logistic officer worth his rank!"

Note to self, make sure the Northern and the Reach officers in charge of supply never met unless it was a question of life and death. The supply quartermasters of Highgarden were infamous for storing quantities of things aboard their warships, and their Crown counterparts often raised several eyebrows of consternation. Putting them in the same room with the Stark bannersmen in charge of the war logistics seemed an easy way to begin a cataclysmic conflict.

"I didn't pack a lot," she said trying to not show how much she was vexed. "My new uniforms, the pilot manuals, one or two robes..."

"Forget the robes, sister," Baela told her, posing her hand on her shoulder. "We are heading to a war zone and although it's unlikely we will be in the thick of the bloodbath, none of the Admirals will host a ball, I can guarantee you that. In fact, discard everything which might be a luxury. You need to take what is useful and good for survival, not what is pretty."

"Okay."

Her twin seemed surprised by her easy surrender. She was right to fear there was something wrong.

"I'm going take my shower. I leave you to decide what must stay at Winterfell." And she stuck her tongue in an undignified manner. It was petty vengeance she knew, but the direwolves plus not telling her about the ice dragon had peeved her a bit. By the Iron Throne, her twin was to be the first Targaryen bonded in a century and a half, and she hadn't told her until they were at Winterfell! Visenya knew Baela was obeying to orders, but she couldn't help but feel jealous and resentful...

The shower was rapidly expedited and when she re-emerged, she stopped her walk an instant at the mess waiting on her bed and everywhere else. It was like a storm had torn apart her bags. Her sister had really...err...emptied everything out to see what was acceptable and what was not.

"Put this uniform first," Baela told her in a voice which broke no command. "I called a Captain to bring me some equipment you lacked, he's sending one or two men that way and I doubt you want to receive them half-naked."

Visenya obeyed with a thin smile. The uniform and what was worn under it wasn't too bad, frankly. Despite the rumours, the Starks were no barbarians and the clothes, the undergarments and the suits were very comfortable. In fact, they looked easier to wear in the long term compared to the outfits she was granted at the capital. The only motive of satisfaction outside was the greyness of the panoply. It was grey, grey and grey from top to toe. Her long silver hairs were restrained with a silver dragon-shaped brooch.

"We will test the spacesuits later at the spaceport." Visenya didn't answer. At the moment Baela was verifying nothing was out of place and her insignia of Lieutenant on her shoulder pads was correctly adjusted, they had both appeared on the mirror and under this light, they both looked nearly identical.

Baela must have sensed it too for their hands joined and for a second or two they stayed immobile. They weren't exactly perfect reflects of each other: she was slightly taller, but Baela had a cup over in breasts.

Then other men-at-arms brought several standard boots like the one she had just hopped into and quantity of things that the Crown standard was obviously unable to challenge.

"This doesn't look like the Northern standard equipment from the last war," Visenya commented as the new Northern square-trunk she was given received Northern uniforms, undergarments, spacesuits, gas masks, several survival kits and more.

"The 285AAC reforms have modified a lot of rules and equipment. And after that, there were two others in 290AAC and 294AAC. I'm told several Braavosi magnates made demonstrations and sold the rights to Northern firms a few of their outdated licences. Take your uniform for example: it is in a new type of shock-fibre which provides about thirty percent more resistant. It also increases the speed you can put your spacesuit when there is an unexpected incident. It is also more comfortable."

Visenya nodded and suddenly became very glad she was not a courtier of King's Landing, as Baela and one summoned servant tore through her shampoo and lotion stock. Visenya wouldn't consider herself someone who took great care of her appearance, but her twin removed about two-thirds of it.

"Everything will be stored either in your bedroom, our children's quarters and the valuable things are going to the vault," she was explained. "I suppose you must have a few jewels?"

"In the black-red trunk with the arms of House Targaryen," they had not been exactly at risk at King's Landing, but given their genitor's inability to notice she was sarcastic, she had preferred taking them with her.

"Nothing dangerous in there?"

"I would call certain things fragile, more dangerous," several admirers had gifted her rings, necklaces and a few crystal objects. "There were..."

A loud growl and a loud thud stopped her in her tracks. Suddenly smoke began to escape from the overture...

"Nothing dangerous?"

"I swear, Baela! This must be one of Arya's jokes, she was here when I opened it the last time! Apart from the jewels, the only thing I have in the trunk is..."

She taped the combination and faster than her reflexes, a red growling arrow threw itself out of the container. Only her training as a pilot allowed her to feint and suddenly she was face-to-face with it.

"Oh, by the Old Gods..." She heard her sister swear.

At the moment, Visenya didn't care. In front of her eyes, there was a dragon, red like the fire, from the horns to the tail. Her egg had hatched. It was her dragon. Delicately, she caught it and placed it upon her left shoulder.

"I name you Starfyre, born of flame on the eve of war," the Targaryen Princess whispered. And for the first time, she felt complete.

* * *

" _There are those who say the King reigned justly and wisely. But if it was truly the case, how it is possible that half of his children crowned themselves Kings before they knew his last breath failed in the depths of the Great Keep? The royal corpse was not cold when Princess Rhaenys led the Dornish through the Marches and broke peace. The Iron Throne had a sovereign when the Vale and the Reach bled their first drops of blood in the War of the Ten Warlords. And the Lannisters were not the last to answer the storms of war, for they had their own candidate too. If the two children of Princess Elia Martell wanted the throne, then Prince Joffrey, Warlord of the Western Sector, was quite happy to fight them by unleashing the mighty squadrons of Casterly Rock..."_ Anonymous agitator arrested for his seditious words against the Targaryen dynasty, executed by hanging in the Highgarden System, 301AAC.

 **Colonel Tyrion Lannister, 06.09.300AAC, Casterly Rock System**

If you wanted to worship a God of tits and wine, the Warrior's Fields of Casterly Rock were not the ideal location for you today.

From the seat he was using as a footboard, Tyrion saw them. Hundreds of thousands soldiers were walking in tight, ordered lines on this pleasant sunny day. Ranks after ranks, they were arriving on the Fields, taking formation and then saluting the royal balcony where the most important nobles were contemplating the military might ready to fight and die for their own ambitions.

Officially, this day had been improvised in two days, following the dreadful news brought back by Prince Joffrey at Casterly Rock. King Rhaegar's madness was impossible to hide and the Dornish Princedom was in revolt or soon going to be. The Seven Sectors were ruled by a Council and a sovereign who had to be deposed before they stabbed the Western Sector in the back like the Iron born had tried to a decade ago.

Unofficially, it was completely impossible to make these military deployments in mere hours. From the ships of the line, battlecruisers and heavy cruisers waiting kilometres above their heads to the columns of Panther-688 battle-tanks, everything had been carefully and methodically prepared by the officers of his Lord Father.

House Lannister rarely forgot the insults uttered against the Lion's honour, and Rhaegar and his cronies had been delighted to voice them by the dozens in the last years. Bad enough the owner of the Iron Throne preferred the Reach over the West, the loans and the armament programs seized by House Tyrell, House Hightower and their friends were a dangerous blade ready to massacre the power of Lannisport and their other vital systems if given the chance. Since Dorne was recalling its merchant hulls and was preparing for a violent assault, Lord Tywin Lannister and his bannersmen were not going to waste the opportunity.

The result was this formidable hammer of steel, flesh and ambition gathered at Casterly Rock and hundreds other bases. Without interruption, he could see pass before his eyes entire regiments of battle-armours Mark 2, 3 and 9, accompanied by the more expensive Mark 4 and 5. In their hands were the laser rifles Sa296, vibro-swords, vibro-axes, mighty lion's ripper claws, blasting-shooter guns, plasma-throwers, incinerators and every type of dangerous weapon the Western forces made available for their troops. It was a red human wave, the gold lion of House Lannister roaring on their armoured chests, and the sound of their armoured feet making the ground tremble. At regular intervals, the Panthers and the light Leopard-1750 scout tanks were presented. Whereas the flow of infantry would occupy and provide boots on the ground of the occupied planets, the durasteel-built mobile divisions would administer a terrible punishment to anyone wishing to test his mettle against the Western armies. And the tanks like the White Lion-70 super-heavies would not be alone on the battlefield, but supported by the Rock, Castamere Bane and Asteroid artillery batteries. Flying at low altitude were the newly developed H-shaped Aggressors Superior and Avengers Interceptor.

And overseeing this from the palatial seats, were his Lord Father and their new King, the former Prince Joffrey Targaryen, now King Joffrey of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Sectors and a good list of titles Tyrion supposed the readers would be quite content to not see them listed here. Who knows, a herald might still be here tomorrow trying to shout them all.

"So this is how peace dies," the lone dwarf murmured while pouring himself a new cup of red in his empty golden cup. "I didn't think it would happen so soon..."

He had made bets to that effect, too. In his opinion, the war had been three or four months away, not right now. But apparently, he had been wrong. The best consolation was the fact all these pompous Marshals, Generals and Admirals were deeper in the wrong than he was, so for once it wasn't like he could be blamed too much.

"HAIL KING JOFFREY!"

"HAIL KING JOFFREY!"

And they repeated that every ten minutes, breaking his hears and forcing him to refill his cup. Not that he needed a lot of excuses to do that, but still.

Tyrion threw a glance at the central portion of a balcony, where of course the grand red carpet arrived after running on several hundreds of stairs. Under the warm sun and the red pavilion, his nephew looked like a young clone of Jaime. Well, if Jaime had been more interested in choosing clothes than training with weapons, but the green-eyed young man had still muscles – to impress the girls, it was kind of a necessity.

For the moment, Joffrey had caused no scandal and was behaving like a benevolent King. The trillion-dragon question was if it was his real visage or just a mask. Tyrion had looked a lot at the holo-images of Rhaegar Targaryen two decades ago. The man had been the perfect symbol of grace and silver-haired beauty, playing music and enchanting nobles and smallfolk alike. What lied underneath this veneer of perfection alas hadn't been something pleasant.

Joffrey had not manifested in public or in private any disturbing behaviour. So far, the most concerning point about him was his hate of his half-brother Aegon Targaryen. But given how many people in the Western Sector didn't like the favourite spawn of Rhaegar, it was kind of hard to blame him...

A shadow loomed over Tyrion and for the first time in three hours, the seat to his left wasn't unoccupied anymore.

"Ah, Ser Addam Marbrand, you arrive just in time to see the official parade of the 9th Hornvale Army!" Yes, he was well-aware the Heir of Ashemark certainly couldn't care less about this particular army – from their position, the parade of one army in red armour was very much like the one preceding it or the one succeeding it.

"I am surprised you manage to keep a smile in front of this boredom," replied the Vice-Admiral before yawning. "I came to swear my vows before going back to work. Parade ceremonies are well and good, but King Joffrey and Lord Tywin have expressed deep reservations about Operation Vanguard given the...tumultuous political situation."

'Tumultuous', yes it was a way to describe the chaos which was spreading everywhere. Merchant ships of several companies attacked by unidentified ships, the Dornish attacking everywhere according to panicked couriers. There were rumours of battles in the street of King's Landing, of Lords declaring themselves independent, of new rebellions in the Iron Sector and Sectors mustering their full levies for the first time in a decade.

"It's not surprising," Tyrion Lannister replied before taking a colourless apple-tasting liquor of Oxcross to vary after five cups of red. "Ser, your strategy's key strength was to assume Mace Tyrell and his fleet would rush in the River Sector like brainless bulls. But according to the latest news, Dorne and the Storm Sector may have stolen us this status. If half of the Reach fleet is in the Marches or trying to put off fires near Storm's End, the Tyrells will not care about the Vances, the Darrys or the Goodbrooks. They will try to smash the vipers offending them, all the while they reinforce their positions at Old Oak and Goldengrove."

"I know." By the grimace he made, Addam Marbrand had realised it and utterly loathed it. "The first phase of Vanguard is still looked favourably at headquarters. After all, it offers us our best chance to get rid of a major fleet loyal to the Crown Prince."

"Well, I can't disagree with this," Tyrion looked at a gigantic banner of the Crakehall boar before returning his attention to the Western Vice-Admiral. "If you trap the Vance-Tully-Piper-Goodbrook fleet, you gain Wayfarer's Rest and Riverrun for sure. Assuming the rest of the River Sector implodes, we would have just established a nice shield without severe losses and these star systems can easily be fortified for our purposes."

"That's my view as well," agreed the brown-haired Knight. "But I wanted to adapt it to a more offensive proposition. The order of battle for Vanguard called for forty-eight ships of the line to be mustered at the Golden Tooth. In my personal opinion, it would be a missed opportunity to not strike as hard as possible."

Tyrion rolled his shoulders in amusement. On this point, Addam and Jaime were very much alike. The thought of his eldest brother brought an ache to his heart the second after, however. No one knew what had happened to him after this idiot of Rhaegar had sent him to Dorne, and given the recent strategic updates...

"I am not the good interlocutor for this conversation, Ser Addam," Tyrion sighed. "I will grant you I am not without influence in certain parts of our industries, logistics and planning," mainly because a lot of Generals and Knights considered these duties beneath them, "but King Joffrey is now in command and my voice carries little weight to him."

The new King, for obvious reasons, wanted to strike the Reach first before they had the time to adapt their obsolete war plans, muster billions of newly-trained soldiers and drown the West in an ocean of green-painted warships and infantry.

"My...concern," said prudently the Marbrand heir, "is that an offensive in the Reach may not meet the successes we expect. As much as we love to laugh at the lack of imagination shown by certain Reach Admirals, an attack through Old Oak or Goldengrove can't surprise our enemies. We will attack directly very heavily fortified systems, and though the supporters of Mace Tyrell have not many new toys to play with, their numbers are a quality of its own. The Rowan and Oakheart worlds may very well be a bloody quagmire for our troops and months of deployment could be lost if their resistance lasts too long."

Tyrion had his throat dry and the holo-images of the Fall of Pyke in his mind after that. Before he watched the extensive reports of the Greyjoy Rebellion, he had no idea how bad a battle could be for an inhabited world...now he did. Given that the Lannister troops wouldn't have the advantage of outnumbering the enemy eighty-to-one, it promised to be bloody indeed.

"And your proposition?"

"We close the same trap around the Vance-Tully forces and destroy them. But instead of advancing towards the heart of the River Sector, we shift our space assets on a southern direction."

Tyrion had to admit, Marbrand was certainly a commander who was resourceful. Most of his cousins, uncles and other useless assistants would still defend their strategies for one or two months before realising events had overtaken them.

"How far do you want to go?"

"Ideally," Addam stressed with the accent of someone who understood that reality and fate were unlikely to cooperate, "we take Wayfarer's Rest, Riverrun and we leave pickets in Deddings and Kneeling's King for the alert warnings. Then we move for Pinkmaiden, Grell, Stony Sept and Castlewood."

"You will have created a shield protecting the Western Sector from the River counter-offensives," said the youngest son of Lord Tywin Lannister, visualising mentally the map of the Darry-governed systems.

"And if we want to invade the Reach by the Lychester-Inchfield jump point, we are but one transit away with about thirty ships of the line."

"Optimistically, it leaves two squadrons in the River Sector for garrison and suppression duties."

It went without saying his Lord Father was not going to appreciate reducing his order of battle.

"Yes," replied levelly the man behind Operation Vanguard. "But the price is worth it, I think. Give a year or two to a competent administrator aware of industrial realities, and we could rearm the star system. The Targaryens have forced them to scrap some forts and defences, the Blackfish is in the North with some of their veterans and their Lord is the 'Lame Fish'...but it is still Riverrun, capital of the Sector for two hundred and eighty years. Supported by several River systems, we would have a power base of our own to...moderate the Frey and Bracken ambitions."

Yes, and it might give them a bargaining ship with House Stark. The Northerners didn't like the Westerners for valid reasons, but if House Lannister rid them of Edmure Tully, perhaps as a prisoner to be sent to the Wall, a child of House Stark could claim Riverrun, which was not a small consolation prize.

"Fine, I agree to support your new plan, though I want to see the long version in public, first." It was not like he was risking a lot, in the end. At worst, he would stay a Colonel-dwarf in the deep bunkers of Casterly Rock until the outcome of this war was decided. At best...probably the same thing would happen. "But I want the best bottles from the great wine cellars of House Vance..."

* * *

 _The Battle of Fawnton. The Storm Civil War. The Fawnton Heresy. The Connington's Graveyard. The Final Purge. The Great Betrayal. The Cataclysm of Horrors._

 _The number of names given to Operation Cataclysm in the years after the bloodshed were literally uncountable and rarely of a positive nature._

 _From the Wall to Sunspear, all the Noble Houses had known of the hostility between House Connington and House Baratheon. Few had thought likely it could end in anything but tears and war._

 _There had been some men at court to publically demand that something be done before the point of no-return was reached. An overwhelming majority of strategists recognised the defeat of a Storm-led rebellion was going to be unavoidable in less than a year, but this victory would have the taste of ashes. The Crown had relied heavily on draining the planets once sworn to the Usurper to replenish its finances. After what had happened to the Iron Sector, the possibility of replaying the Fall of Pyke on dozens of planets was giving shivers to those who had the eyes turned in the direction of Storm's End, Stonehelm and Haystack Hall._

 _But in the end, nothing had been done. Jon Connington was hated and reviled, his name an insult in towns and aboard the starships of the former Storm rebels. The taxes had never stopped climbing, and the Sector was so close to bankruptcy the difference was mostly academic. On 14.09.300AAC, Stannis Baratheon, the Warlord the Targaryen Loyalists of King Aegon Targaryen would forever call the Betrayer, announced the obligations and the debts the Storm Sector owed to the Crown, the Reach and every other individuals or nations were null and void. The economic crisis the Iron Throne wanted to avoid for a good decade was striking at the worst possible moment, although the war's start helped mitigate this explosion. There were evidently too many disasters and upheavals happening in every corner of the realm for this new problem to agitate the collapsing markets._

 _The fratricidal butchery inflicted at Fawnton could not be so easily dismissed. The First Storm Fleet and the First Storm Grand Army mustered at Fawnton by Lord Jon Connington represented the greatest muster the supporters King Rhaegar and Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen could afford to gather. They gave it an impressive name: the First Storm Legion. When added the warships Stannis Baratheon and his supporters came with, the percentage of the Stormlands-crewed fleet which fought in the star system was nearly eighty percent of its total effectives, and one had to make the assumption several capital ships could not be present due to lack of maintenance, funds and spare parts._

 _Noble, Masterly and Knightly Houses, old and new, had been called-to-arms for war. And it was war they met at Fawnton. The hate of the last decades found finally its boiling point, and the great enmities were settled once for all._

 _There was to be no mercy, no pity and no surrender._

 _Stannis Baratheon and his commanders had named it Operation Cataclysm, and by a dark prescience, this was exactly what the battle was..._

Extract from the Lies and the Vengeance, Anonymous author, 320AAC.

* * *

 _The Fawnton System has always been a third-tier system of the Storm Sector in every era. With a single planet able to support life, no asteroid belt and very few features to support a massive industrial presence, Fawnton was never one of the big powerhouses under the Durrandons Kings, and it was a trend which continued under the Paramount rule of House Baratheon. The presence of a gas giant remains one of the high advantages of House Cafferen, allowing them to sell their home-produced fuel to the nearby Reach Sector neighbours and the other Storm Noble Houses._

 _Otherwise, the rest of the system has not any touristic appeal. Of the three continents available colonisation, two have unpleasant rainy weather and low temperatures. The oceans are generally far colder than any non-Northerner Westerosi tolerates for swimming. The ancient monuments are few and far between: the Dance of Dragons destroyed many prized statues and valuable archaeological sites and the aftermath of the Usurper's Rebellion saw more disappear. Fawnton remains logistically independent for its food consumption and industrial needs, but remains a net importer for cutting-edge technology. The last years have seen a slim increase of the Gross Systemic Product, but there are concerns about some agricultural reforms..._

Extract of Guide of the Storm Sector, by Hugh Argenter, 297AAC.

* * *

 _Ser Morrigen,_

 _Per your instructions, here is to my best knowledge the list of the forces the dragon-licker Connington has ordered to Fawnton. It is highly unlikely there will stay in this star system for more than eight days, however, as the skirmishes with the Dornish Princedom have radically increased in the last days. You will note the presence of the_ Golden Stag _and the_ Golden Age _, two capital warships of the Reach and known to be the personal flagships of the traitor Renly Baratheon and his friend Loras Tyrell. Otherwise, the warships and the forces are what we were warned for: roughly two thirds of the manpower available to Connington for the ground forces and even bigger percentage for the space assets. Houses Connington, Cafferen, Herston, Lonmouth, Musgood and Caron form the bulk of the Noble Houses. There are a few Grandison and Peasebury lesser branches trying to sell their souls and their swords for a good price, but their contribution is negligible. Below is the order of battle._

First Storm Fleet:

Lord Paramount Admiral-General Jon Connington is in command.

8 Ships of the line:

5 Loyalty's Reward-class: _Loyalty's Reward_ (Admiral-General Jon Connington flagship), _Griffin's Wrath_ (Admiral Ser Ronnet Connington flagship), _Usurper's Death_ (Admiral Lord Thurgood Cafferen flagship), _Harrenhal Triumph_ (Vice-Admiral Lord Richard Lonmouth flagship), _Shining Star_ (General Lord Bryce Caron flagship)

1 Purple Rose-class: _Golden Stag_ (Admiral Ser Renly Baratheon flagship)

1 Loyal Griffin-class: _Loyal Griffin_ (Marshal of the Rain Rift Ser Rhaegar Connington flagship)

1 Shield-Breaker-class: _Indestructible_ (Admiral Lord Orys Herston flagship)

1 Armoured Cruiser:

Steel Paragon-class _: Blessed Knight_ (Vice-Admiral Ser Raymund Connington flagship)

12 Battlecruisers:

6 Fall of Pyke-class: _Fall of Pyke_ (Senior Captain Ronald Storm), _Blackstone Fortress_ (Rear-Admiral Ser Ralph Herston), _Final Redoubt_ (Senior Captain Ser Bonifer Musgood), _Kraken's Death_ (Senior Captain Ser Lomas Cafferen), _Massacre of Reavers_ (Vice-Admiral Ser Durran Musgood), _Price of Betrayal_ (Rear-Admiral Willis Lonmouth)

4 Destruction-class: _Destruction of Rebels_ (Rear-Admiral Ser Royce Fawn), _Magnanimity_ (Senior Captain Ser Barristan Herston), _Tears of Destruction_ (Rear-Admiral Alyn Chamois), _Yellow Ruin_ (Rear-Admiral Ser Theo Nightingale)

2 Eastern Wind-class: _Strong Wind_ (Senior Captain Dale Shouter), _Tornado_ (Rear-Admiral Eldon Tent)

23 Heavy cruisers:

12 Nightsong-class

10 Fawnton-class

1 Sleeping Lion-class

24 Light Cruisers:

20 Stone Guard-class

4 Golden Buckle-class

50 Scout cruisers:

42 Griffin's Charge-class

4 Jewel of the Storm-class

2 Wooden Ambush-class

2 Black Butterfly-class

3 Fleet Carriers:

1 Royal Eagle-class: _Royal Eagle_

1 Griffin Wing-class: _Griffin Wing_

1 Lord Luthor Tyrell-class: _Golden Age_ (Fighter-Admiral Ser Loras Tyrell flagship)

41 Light Carriers:

36 Sky Master-class

5 Falcon Hunter-class

76 Escort Carriers:

15 White Feather-class

16 Marcher's Defiance-class

20 Haven of Loyalty-class

10 Royal Pavilion-class

11 Ashford-class

4 Red Lips-class

5125 Starfighters:

4300 White-Griffin-class

720 Stormshadow-class

105 Paladin R-7-class

First Storm Grand Army:

3 Behemoths:

Crown Behemoth _Royal Thunder_

Crown Behemoth _Terrible Blade_

Storm Behemoth _Paragon of Nobility_

3.6 million Cannons

472 000 Tanks

413 000 Aircraft

Connington Muster: 140 million men

Cafferen Muster: 2 million men

Herston Muster: 1.5 million men

Lonmouth Muster: 21.4 million men

Musgood Muster: 2 million men

Caron Muster: 26 million men

Crown Expeditionary Force: 1 million men

 _I remain your humble servant,_

 _X-149999_

* * *

 **Ser Guyard Morrigen, 06.09.300AAC, Fawnton System**

"This is Ser Guyard. The time has come, men. Execute Case Black."

The Morrigen Knight didn't waste any more words in futile words. One combination and the camouflage armour he wore stopped showing red and white colours. Next to him, the ten warriors of his staff did the same thing and where Connington-coloured battle-armours had been seen moments ago, there were now replaced by the traditional yellow-black of the Storm Sector.

"Death to House Connington!" He shouted and he opened fire with his laser blast-gun on the fifty or so Caron infantry in front of him guarding the doors of the orbital station's armoury.

At this distance, even the worst shooter in the galaxy could not have missed and Guyard had twenty more shooters positioned in ideal positions. In seconds, the walls and the ground were painted in red, and it was not Connington's toxic paint which flowed.

A roar of triumph rose in the throats of his men.

"DEATH!"

"DEATH TO THE TARGARYENS! DEATH TO HOUSE CONNINGTON!"

What followed could be not called anything but a slaughter. Guyard and all his men were in Mark 2 and 4 battle-armours. The Connington, Caron, Musgood and Cafferen troops in the centre of _Fawnton One_ were not. Oh, some had light weapons but more for crowd control and intimidation at this late hour and even then their main opponent had been boredom.

Against his men, they had no chance.

"DEATH TO THE GRIFFIN!"

Cannons shot indiscriminately civilians and soldiers, and bodies fell everywhere. Some courageous officer tried to put his men in a regular line but a plasma explosion volatilised the formation into bloody fragments.

"KILL THEM AND NO MERCY!"

Vibro-swords and vibro-axes were drawn, cut flesh and bones, creating thousands of agony screams by their actions. The corridors, the halls and the muster points soon became slaughterhouses. The battle-armours in Baratheon-armours herded the fleeing troops towards the agreed killing grounds and the butchery continued, merciless and remorseless.

"The armouries are all under our control. Defence turrets and gas stores are deactivated."

"Then we move for the central command post. Kill everything and everyone who isn't loyal to Lord Stannis."

"By your command!"

Though Guyard would have preferred taking hostages, he couldn't afford to. Counting all his men aboard _Fawnton One_ and the rest of the stations, he had perhaps seven thousand men under his command, basically three infantry regiments and support. There were roughly _two million_ regulars and several hundreds of thousand civilians aboard Fawnton One, and while he had surprise on his side and a large majority were sleeping in their beds, the Lieutenant-Colonel was still facing what euphemistically called 'a slight strength disadvantage'.

The Connington and Cafferen, now that surprise was over, tried to regain the positions they had just lost. Guyard and hundreds of men surged forwards, crushing skulls, slicing throats and shooting torsos. After for so long being forced to obey these fuckers, it was glorious.

The killing-count spiralled out of control. By the time, they forced their way to the final great hallways and the golden fountains bought by Lord Cafferen to satisfy his ego, Guyard had killed over seven hundred enemies by himself and each of the closest soldiers with him were boasting of similar hunting numbers.

"Stay alert! This is where the hard part really begins!"

His warning came just in time for a tide of Cafferen regulars launched a monumental assault to stop their progression towards the command centre. Both sides knew what the other's objective assault was and had no possibility to withdraw. Here and there, some Connington Loyalists had found battle-armours and there were in the middle of thousand men brandishing vibro-spears and laser guns.

The frontal shock was terrible. In a single impact of astonishing violence, six hundred Baratheon battle-armours smashed into a Cafferen-Connington mass boasting ten times their numbers. For a good minute the tactics and the strategy were nothing more than a long-past annoyance. Guyard plunged his vibro-blade to save his life and his laser weapon massacred at an insane rate his opponents.

"FOR LORD JON CONNINGTON AND KING RHAEGAR! FOR THE CROWN!"

"FOR THE BLACK STAG AND REVENGE! FOR KING STANNIS!"

The soldiers of Fawnton arrived by pickets of hundreds to reinforce their failing centre, the corridors filling with their corpses, but his Morrigen regulars killed them faster than the incoming fresh men. These fighters were courageous, yes. Guyard Morrigen would give them that.

But they were not ready for a true battle in the very heart of their defences. And now they never would fight again.

"STANNIS KING! STANNIS KING!"

The Cafferen troops stopped and their efforts began to collapse. The screams they were making demoralised their companions, but the lack of correct equipment was more harmful and seeing thousands of their friends lying dead was even more damaging for their morale.

Guyard raised his close-contact weapon and screamed in defiance.

"WE WILL AVENGE THE TRIDENT!"

"CHILDREN OF THE STORM! DEATH TO STORM'S END FOES!"

"OURS IS THE FURY!"

The three minutes which followed were annihilation in every way which counted. The Fawnton forces were scythed down and murdered. Secure doors were blasted apart and fleeing men gunned down for the example.

It was not a cheap offensive. When he finally entered the command centre and ordered his closest subordinates to get rid of the slimes – the same which had insulted him profusely not ten hours ago – he was left with less than two hundred and fifty men.

"Turn the platform defence grid against the dockyards and the warships," the second son of Lord Morrigen commanded. "Priority targets are the starfighters hangars and the ships of the line. We must make sure they are bloodied before our liege arrives."

"With great pleasure, Ser!"

"And since Lord Connington mustn't escape, begin with the _Loyalty's Reward_."

The Griffin had insulted the Storm Sector in every way possible in the last decade, it was time to begin the repayment of the humiliations.

"Once you have re-routed the primary plasma and laser armaments on the capital warships and the First Fleet, use the energy sensors to prepare preliminary strikes on the ground forces."

"Your will be done, Colonel."

"How much time since our reinforcements arrive?"

"About five hours..."

Guyard Morrigen nodded grimly. It was unlikely his forces were going to survive that long, to be honest. Stannis Baratheon and his Lord Father had not hidden this from him. Seven thousand or eight thousand soldiers, it was all the same ultimately: they were against a mustering of over three hundred million troops, and once the imbeciles knew they had been betrayed and _Fawnton One_ had fallen, they would stop at nothing to regain control of the orbital defensive and offensive systems.

"Colonel, our scouts are reporting boarding parties in Sector 14-A, 6-C and 9-E. The men have the sigils of House Lonmouth and Connington. They have a lot of heavy weapons, battle-armours and... the first sensors are reporting at least sixty thousand of them."

"So they have finally wised up and unleashed their elites. What a pity." Guyard shrugged. "We can't stop them, and we are not going to try. Open all the non-vital sections to the void. Let's see how they like to fight in zero-gravity conditions..."

* * *

 **Lord Richard Lonmouth, 06.09.300AAC, Fawnton System**

Richard had taken his seat on the flag bridge of the _Harrenhal Triumph_ when he saw the _Loyalty's Reward_ die.

The mighty ship of the line, pride of the Connington shipyards and flagship of the First Storm Fleet, was not granted a clean and honourable demise. The first volley of lasers broke its prow and set aflame the upper decks. A near-plasma hit impacted the armour like a thousand mini-asteroids. Laser guns – the Cafferen platforms returned against their own side – eviscerated the engines and the vital sections.

If the _Loyalty's Reward_ had been at battle-sections, the fusion reactors and the rest of the damaged systems would have certainly went critical or melted half of the conduits. But the capital ship had been under minimal power and thus this fate was avoided...for all the good it did. More missiles and lasers find their target and the great ship of the line turned aside like a slug in a futile attempt to disengage, revealing how deformed and wounded its flanks were. Most of the decks were venting air, water and uncountable debris, some which looked to be of human nature. Its acceleration was already failing and after several seconds it stopped. Hundreds of escape pods emerged from the wounded hull, some of which instantly vaporised by incoming explosive ordnance or the disintegrating warship.

"GET US OUT OF HERE!"

"Fire and kill the traitors!"

"Batteries 6 and platform 201 compromised!"

The _Loyalty's Reward_ didn't explode, but Richard suspected it was because there was nothing less in its pitiful wreck to play its role. The ventral section of the warship had three enormous holes in it, there were mini-explosions everywhere and the prow was broken in half. By this point, there was no way this warship could be considered salvageable. Building a brand-new starship would cost a third of the cost and cause far less logistical problems...

"Over seventy percent of the grid has been returned against us, my Lord," informed him his flag Captain. "Every commander is ordered to send boarding parties to retake control before we are completely obliterated."

"Do it," he answered. "Put the maximum distance between us and those damned platforms and start evacuation procedures for the divisions on the ground. We can't..."

A lone missile exploding less than fifty kilometres away provoked a nasty shockwave and the _Harrenhal Triumph_ shook under the blow.

To his shame, his flagship was doing well compared to the disaster engulfing the fleet. The _Loyalty's Reward_ was no longer answering, and it was fortunate indeed Jon had been on the planet when the treachery began. The _Shining Star_ of Bryce Caron was still trying to move, but it had lost a good third of its length and was venting tons of debris. Of the _Usurper's Death_ , nothing remained. The first volley had apparently touched its core and transformed into a star. The _Indestructible_ was, at the risk of saying a bad pun, not proving itself worthy of its name. The _Loyal Griffin_ had left with small injuries, but in its precipitation rammed a scout cruiser and only their low velocities prevented a mutual overkill, though the ship of the line would need months of reparations and the scout cruiser was a lost cause.

The lone armoured cruiser _Blessed Knight_ was vaporised by the merciless bombardment, and two heavy cruisers accompanied it in its fiery grave. The battlecruiser _Tears of Destruction_ erupted like a super-volcano when its own ammunition exploded in its stores and Rear-Admiral Alyn Chamois's voice went silent on the communications frequencies.

The battle was an inferno of fratricidal destruction. Surprised, the Storm Fleet and the mobile orbital battalions had lost precious minutes trying to rally, but now they struck with a vengeance. Fawnton Three was recaptured with an obscene amount of casualties and three light cruisers detonating in monumental charges.

The starfighters hangars were the scene of desperate evacuation and mere dozens engines had managed to launch before the holocaust found them. The scout cruisers were massacred by the very facilities and weapons they were supposed to protect.

But the traitors had shot their bolt. For all their ruthlessness and efficiency, it appeared they weren't that many of them – most calls and reports agreed the betrayers were from House Morrigen and had repainted their battle-armours in Baratheon colours.

"Neutralise _Fawnton One_ and finish them!" He ordered more loudly than he intended. On the tactical display, the representation of the _Indestructible_ vanished from the screens and one second later new explosions and debris were added to the massacre. Admiral Lord Orys Herston's flagship was no more, and the battlecruiser _Yellow Ruin_ of Rear-Admiral Ser Theo Nightingale was...experiencing massive problems like four or five decks opened to the void.

They were suppressing the betrayal...but too slowly. Five more scout cruisers were broken apart, and in the last minute they had lost over twenty transports and supply ships. Not to mention they were several orbital strikes against the planet and the casualties list were in the tens of thousands there.

"Oh, Merciful Father..."

Richard turned his eyes in front of the main screen to see the battlecruiser _Kraken's Death_ , uncontrollable and agonising, plunging its hammer-shaped head in the core of the _Fawnton One_ command station. The resulting calamity was so brilliant that even hundreds or thousands kilometres away, the flash was blinding and everyone on the bridge covered his eyes for a few seconds.

The Lord of the Lonmouth System crumbled on his seat and for several minutes stayed silent. Why? What sort of motivations could justify this folly? He didn't know how many conventions and treaties of good conduct had been violated in the last minutes, but it was madness. Some folly had devoured the souls of the Morrigen troops, nothing...

"Our losses, Lieutenant," Richard croaked after long minutes where he tried to stop thinking about the fate of the thousands he had sent to retake control of the station, only to lose them in this apocalyptic fire.

"The _Loyalty's Reward_ , the _Usurper's Death_ , the _Indestructible_ and the _Shining Star_ are gone, my Lord. We have also lost the armoured cruiser Blessed Knight, five battlecruisers including the _Destruction of Rebels_ and the _Blackstone Fortress_ , twelve to fourteen heavy cruisers, seven light cruisers, thirty-eight scout cruisers, the fleet carrier _Royal Eagle_ , twenty-five light carriers and the near-totality of our escort carriers. Most of our starfighters have been disintegrated."

The young man raised his head and in his blue eyes, Richard saw the same incomprehension he had in his.

"The reports on the ground...we have estimations the Cafferen divisions were in the thick of the inferno with the Crown forces, and we aren't sure...the command structure of their forces is compromised."

Richard's fists tightened in powerless fury. There had been over two millions Storm regulars of House Cafferen parading around their capital, and one million detached Crown men. Assuredly, all these soldiers were dead, for not many things could survive the sheer force of the orbital strikes.

"The Behemoth _Royal Thunder_ has been confirmed destroyed. Its two consorts are lightly damaged and regrouping east with our regiments. The starports have suffered high-level fatalities and roughly one third of our bombers and other aircraft support are gone..."

Why? Why had they been so willing to die for this insanity? So many deaths, the Storm Sector was now going to be at the mercy of the Reach for its defence, if the Dornish didn't swallow them first, and...

And suddenly Richard Lonmouth understood with brutal clarity. This was no madness which had forced the Morrigen to rebel. This was a methodical and ruthless plan to butcher the First Storm Fleet.

This was the second act of the Usurper's Rebellion, and while the very defences of Fawnton were annihilated in nuclear explosions and lasers, the jaws of death were closing on them.

"This is a general order on my own authority! Illuminate the entire system! All monitoring stations must pass on Condition Black-Royal-Two-Loyal! Contact the far-range pickets and tell all surviving stations to report any suspect reports!"

For several seconds, many of his officers looked at him like he was mad. Then after several seconds, understanding spread and as orders were executed mechanically, fear returned more pressing.

After fifteen minutes where the list of losses continued to increase by hundreds of thousands, the first red dots representing enemy units began to appear and multiply on their sensors.

"The Morrigen betrayal was the hammer. This..." He moved his hand towards the blazing crimson symbols, "is the anvil which will make sure our war is going to be a very, very short one."

There was nothing they could do. Of the eight ships of the line, four were destroyed and two were in no state to fight against anything more dangerous than a light cruiser. The rest of the capital warships were similarly crippled.

"Three enemy detections detected. Designate them Traitor One, Traitor Two and Traitor Three. Emissions are consistent with the profile of warships from Houses Baratheon, Errol, Buckler, Wensington, Horpe, Dondarrion, Swann, Staedmon,..."

The litany continued for uncountable seconds and the magnitude of the treachery struck them in the face. Nearly every House which was not present at Fawnton for the war games had betrayed its oaths.

It was high treason of the like which had never been seen.

It was also happening right before his eyes and the squadrons supposed to crush them had just been devastated.

"Traitor One has come out the Summerhall jump point and is two hours away. Enemy strength estimates: eight ships of the line and eight battlecruisers. Traitor Two, four ships of the line strong, is moving away from the Gower's Spear jump point and is on an intercept course for the gas giant of the system. They will come into missile range in four hours. Traitor Three has also four ships of the line and has emerged from the Poddingfield nexus and is using its acceleration to rush to the Grassy Vale jump point and avoid any escape or reinforcements for our side."

"My Lord, given the number of Storm units, the..."

"Stannis Baratheon has betrayed us, I know. And it looks like he has convinced nearly all the other Noble Houses to follow him in his betrayal."

Most assessments and propaganda had described the Master of Storm's End as a sort of grim-like and uncharismatic creature no one would willingly serve. By all evidence available, this information was so out of touch with reality that their spies deserved to be shot for their incompetence.

"Order a general evacuation and demand a priority line to Lord Connington. We must save what we can from this trap..."

* * *

 **Ser Renly Baratheon, 06.09.300AAC, Fawnton System**

No one was panicking in the headquarters of the Fawnton armed forces.

"Order the Behemoth to turn around! No, no this division must stay on its position! Don't move there! You must go to the bunkers!"

"Don't be absurd, this regiment must go to the spaceport!"

"The spaceport is not going to be repaired before days! Take these shuttles and go!"

Panic was a vast understatement for the chaos unfolding in front of his very eyes. There were officers running everywhere like they had their backside on fire, shouting incomprehensible orders, walking away, and then returning in a sprint to bark the exact opposite of the commands they had been uttering seconds ago. Flag captains were screaming, insulting and begging for new commands. Ship crew who had been unable to return in orbit were opening without orders new orders of communication.

There was no order anymore. And on every tactical display, the red waves of the Storm Traitor Fleet was getting closer, outnumbering massively the surviving loyalist hulls. Even if the captains of Griffin's Roost and Nightsong had been unshaken and able to count on intact orbital defences, it would not have been a fair fight.

With the defences crippled and half of the capital warships dead or so badly damaged it made no difference, the fight could only end one way.

Renly didn't care about that. Or rather, yes, he cared about the millions of dead, but it was a secondary preoccupation in his thoughts. For the first time in his life, he had realised his brother truly hated him. Stannis hated him. His eldest brother loathed him enough to unleash a betrayal so awful every turncloak in history would be forced to bow in approval. And it was Renly's fault. Avoiding a slaughter and a generalised insurrection like this one was the very reason he had been sent to Highgarden as a hostage at first.

But Renly loved Loras and had believed him that in time, both the current Lords of Storm's End and Griffin's Roost were likely to be removed for their conspiracies and incompetence. And who better to choose for Lord Paramount than the young, fair and charming youngest brother of the Black Stag? He would have the support of Highgarden, the love of the people...

It had been a nice dream. But now it was just a nightmare of betrayal and star-like explosions.

"It's my fault," he murmured.

"No, it's not," answered Loras taking his hand and placing it on his heart. "You couldn't know what was going to happen."

"We were still imbeciles to go to Storm's End and provoke Stannis like this," Renly affirmed in a mournful tone. "We pretty much confirmed him we hadn't a single idea how advanced his rebellious plans were."

"Yes," Loras growled angrily. "In hindsight, Rhaegar Connington's strategy was...flawed."

This was not the word Renly would have used, but since the red-haired idiot in question was shouting asinine orders at the other end of the room, maybe this was not the best moment to insult him.

And it wasn't like it was going to make a difference, in the end.

"Can we escape?

"Your _Golden Stag_ is severely damaged and most of his bay can't receive our shuttles. We will have to leave it behind and take the _Golden Age_ and pray our engines hold long enough to evade the Baratheon fleet."

"Can we really escape this trap?" Loras had always been better at tactics and strategy, but frankly Renly saw no gap or weakness in the encroaching wave of traitor warships.

"I believe so," Loras said darkly. "But we are going to pay it in blood and tears."

The two young men watched the tactical displays for a few seconds, as Jon Connington, his son and his cousins gathered in the headquarters tried to scream louder than the rest. To his consternation, they were not ordering an evacuation but a consolidation of their effectives in the underground basements.

"What in the Seven Hells is he doing? There are not enough bunkers to hide a third of the men we have left, and the Grand Army is short three or four million regulars already."

"House Tyrell should never have supported House Connington's elevation the title of Lord Paramount. This was our great mistake and now..."

Yes, now they were in an ugly situation. Dorne declaring war and apparently destroying the forces of Nightsong in a single day was catastrophic. But compared to the beating they had already received and the additional casualties which were sure to come, Fawnton was going to make Nightsong looks like a pillow-fight.

"Our men are waiting for us, Renly. Let's go back to the _Golden Age_. Someone has to carry the news of the Storm Lords' betrayal to Highgarden..."

"Yes, I suppose so..." Fleeing the battlefield was leaving something bitter and unpleasant in his mouth, but there was no pretending the situation could be restored. As it was, it was going to be difficult enough to escape. The Connington forces wanted a glorious last stand, it was obvious they were not going to be granted one.

The lights flickered and shadows rose from the darkness.

Humanoid figures coalesced and they struck without a word. Screams of stupefaction and horror echoed but it was too late. Few were in battle-armours in this centre guarded by the elite's elite of the First Legion, and surprise was total.

A tall creature raised a great blade of darkness and stabbed Jon Connington like the laws of reality didn't apply to him. The Lord Paramount of the Storm Sector fell, and seconds later his eldest son was decapitated by the same dark monster.

"RUN RENLY! RUN!"

More shadows were coming and their weapons were cutting apart alloys, metal and flesh indifferently. On all the frequencies, terror began to spread. The lights were flickering and the temperatures were rising. They ran, shooting in pure loss the shadows and trying to fray themselves a way into the flow of soldiers running for their very lives.

The shouts changed of nature as the walls began to contort just as they left the grounds to rush towards Loras' shuttle. There were flames. There were shadows. And the shouts had changed to something more awful and horrifying.

"DEMONS! DEMONS!"

* * *

 **Senior Captain Dale Shouter, 07.09.300AAC, Fawnton System**

Three days ago, Dale would not have imagined commanding an army on the ground to face a demonic host. Why should he? He was the commanding officer of the _Strong Wind_ , an Eastern Wind-class battlecruiser, and quite happy with his lot in life.

But it had been seventy-two hours ago, when the galaxy had still made sense. Before the betrayals, the treacheries and the massacres set the star system aflame and poured seas of blood in the stars and the hills. It had been seventy-two hours before the reality became horrific and the shadow monsters came, preceding the demons.

By all rights he should be dead if not the monumental incompetence of his shuttle's pilot, who had been three hours late bringing him back to orbit. So when the treachery had taken place, the Strong Wind had lost over one quarter of its crew, the jump generators and most of the lower decks, which meant it couldn't escape and he couldn't go back aboard. He had ordered his second to obey whoever was in charge for a last breakthrough, and gone to organise the defence of the Shouter forces, Knightly House in service of House Herston.

They had taken refuge in one of the southern continent's best fortresses, regrouped the artillery and waited for the traitors to come. But the Baratheons and their bannersmen had not yet arrived. Their opponents were shadows and demons.

"Stand your ground! Hold your positions!"

The laser batteries fired as fast as they could, but the monsters were countless and reality seemed to distort around them. The ground was burning. The skies themselves appeared to rain fire and blood, though Dale knew it was more likely these were the countless debris of wrecks and stations entering the atmosphere.

"For the Seven! Protect the civilians!"

Volley after volley of the guns decimated the red horde, but the thousands killed didn't stop the hundreds of thousands to come after them. And civilian or soldiers, many men were screaming and becoming insane. The suicides were coming by hundreds as veterans of the Greyjoy Rebellion became unable to cope with this madness.

"FOR THE FATHER AND THE MOTHER! KILL THE DEMONS!"

Some septons tried to shout louder than the officers, pressing their men to fight harder, to have faith and to stay steadfast. But the flames were spreading, and the demons were coming closer. And when the creatures came closer, the Storm Captain noticed human faces piercing through a red haze.

"They are us..." he realised horrified.

The tanks launched their counter-attack and Dale and thousands of survivors followed them into hell. And into this nightmare, he saw his guards and those of different Houses fall one by one. The abominations were legion. They were death roused to exterminate humanity. Kill one, and ten took its place the next second. The vibro-sword and the rifle were getting heavier by the second.

The lethal blow when it came was too fast to do any other thing but try a slow parry missing the fiery demonic blade. The pain was devouring but as his eyes rose to the sky, Dale watched new lights appear. And those weren't of demonic origin.

"The judgement arrives, monsters..."

And then his like ceased to be.

* * *

 **Lord Richard Lonmouth, 07.09.300AAC, Fawnton System**

The _Harrenhal Triumph_ was never going to leave the Fawnton System after all.

Richard knew it and he accepted it.

It was strange in a way. He should have felt fury or anger. And maybe he had hours or days ago. It was difficult to remember after these countless disasters. There was plenty of anger to rage at the betrayal of the Stormlanders, who had once been considered loyal and above all high suspicion by the Targaryen dynasty. There was disgust to have for Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon, who had used him to provide a large-scale diversion and escape with their carrier _Golden Age_ , the battlecruiser _Tornado_ and a couple of cruisers.

But why waste the time he has left? Let the credulous young stag and the golden son of Mace Tyrell escape to carry the news. They were young and had a few years left in them...if the galaxy had that long.

Moreover, such a disastrous defeat was going to need a scapegoat and since Jon Connington and all his friends were dead, he was the senior space officer left. He had left the last warships operational after the treachery bled them and condemned them to the night.

No, fleeing today was not the correct choice. There were millions of people devoured on the planet below by real demons. He had failed them, like House Connington and House Cafferen had failed them. No salvation would come, and the rare holo-displays had stopped showing the images after it had became extremely clear humans were just a source of food for these abominations.

"My Lord, we have managed to restrain the fires to the lower compartments. We should have...eight minutes before the protections cede and the _Triumph_ is no longer operable."

It had the merit to simplify his choices...

"How many missiles the traitors have sent our way?"

"I think close to six thousand. The impact will be in five minutes."

The last Lord of House Lonmouth nodded, not bothering to hide his exhaustion.

"We can't survive them, my Lord. And frankly even if we could...all the ammunition stores are blocked and half of our missile tubes are destroyed."

There was an atmosphere of blood, smoke and death in the air as the young Lieutenant reported on the bridge, the corpses of those he had replaced in mortuary bags.

"There is still one target we can reach, Lieutenant," Richard spoke, trying to ignore the pain in his legs and his chest, or how his uniform was soaked in his blood and those of his subordinates. "Override the last security protocol and under my authority...execute the Castamere Option against Fawnton."

Words he had never believed that would reach his lips. But in this instance, it would not be a war crime, just the last mercy he could offer to the people of Fawnton.

"Yes, my Lord. It was an honour serving you."

"The honour was mine..."

The _Harrenhal Triumph_ began to accelerate, plunging in the upper atmosphere of the planet which had become in the next hours the antechamber of the Seven Hells. The armour of the ship of the line began to burn and a cloud of debris was expelled from the entrails of his flagship. The reality was thinning and though it was impossible, he saw the legions of demons pouring into reality, massacring Stormlanders by the millions. The clouds opened to reveal a spectacle of devastation and apocalypse. It was a vision which reminded him the Fall of Pyke.

Richard closed his eyes.

He never reopened them.

* * *

 **Flame of the Pyre, 07.09.300AAC, Fawnton System**

The words the High Priestess of R'hllor used when she saw the great warship plunge into the atmosphere would not be repeated in public where her brothers and sisters of the Red might hear. And if the Red Voice had been here, she would not have allowed herself to express her frustration.

She had won. Jon Connington was dead, and the souls of the defenders and inhabitants belonged to R'hllor. The world was going to become a fortress for the Lord of Light, the brilliance and the majesty of his servants revealed to the lights of the unbelievers in millennia.

And at the moment of triumph, there was this.

The woman who had been once called Tysha Lannister had not received a well-rounded education, but you didn't need to be a genius in physics to know that a two million-tons warship ramming the planet at a fraction of the speed of light was not going to be a pleasant scene.

The crater created by the impact alone was going to be phenomenal. Combined with the amount of debris, the aetheric disturbances she was responsible of, and the many disastrous explosions wracking Fawnton atmosphere and environment, and you obtained a mass reaction where nothing could survive.

In their ignorance, the unbelievers had chosen a method which was indeed going to prevent her from claiming victory in the name of R'hllor.

The Flame of the Pyre readjusted her red robe before standing on her two legs and spitting ten swords of command. Before she had finished speaking, a gate sufficient to let two humans of great size opened and the High Priestess smiled, for her God was thanking her for her efforts.

The Priestess threw a last look around at the ritual circles and the laboratory where the experiments had been stored before being unleashed. Ultimately, the main goal had been accomplished. Jon Connington and all his loyalists were dead, and the Red Voice would be able to direct the Crown Prince's anger at the Lords and warriors who had betrayed King Rhaegar's loyal servants. The influence of the True Religion would rise to new heights, relegating the False Seven to forgotten altars and dusty chronicles.

She stepped through the portal and grimaced as a second sun engulfed the world she had just left.

* * *

 **Senior Captain Lady Brienne Tarth, 07.09.300AAC, Fawnton System**

There was not a whisper or a murmur on the bridge. For that matter, all communications from the other flagships, battlecruisers and lighter units had stopped too.

Brienne, like thousands of Baratheon officers, had only eyes for the planet below them.

For the first time of their lives, they saw a world die.

The impact of the _Harrenhal Triumph_ with the planet was almost peaceful. A ship of the line, frankly, was a tiny thing compared to the sheer majesty of a celestial body. In the first seconds, you could almost believe the man-made creation was going to be insignificant.

Then the Behemoth-level shockwave spread like the first of ten angry Gods, destroying every surface structure, rivalling the strongest of earthquakes and natural disasters, erasing abominations, demons, traitors and monsters from the surface of the galaxy.

It was not over. The planet convulsed and the ripples spread. The Lonmouth capital warship had struck the ocean south of the Cafferen capital cities and now over five or six mega-tsunamis were ravaging the islands and the continents, submerging everything under waves so high it defied imagination.

And it was just the beginning. The debris of the satellites, stations and incinerated warships were also falling and adding to the toll of destruction now. There were secondary impacts and far less destructive, but they increased the rain of ashes and death.

Cutting-edge technology and underground bunkers or not, Brienne couldn't see how anything could survive this...cataclysm. The equivalent of thousands of nukes had just saturated the air, and the winter age which was going to engulf the Cafferen domains was going to be awful. Earthquake activity was going to be multiplied by a hundred, no, a thousand. Massive volcanoes were going to rain ashes and cover the skies in a perpetual night. Temperatures would never have positive values for centuries. And who knew what else would happen, given the appearance of unnatural demonic creatures?

The single inhabitable world of the Fawnton System was no more. Perhaps in time the Noble Houses may gather the trillions necessary to regulate the climate and heal its wounds, but it would take decades and anyway, they had to wait centuries for the environmental disasters to decrease in intensity and danger.

Fawnton was no more, but the Rebellion lived, stronger than ever, and they would never forget.

"We have become Death, the destroyers of worlds," concluded Lord Stannis Baratheon.

* * *

 _By the time the greater part of the Baratheon squadrons jump away, the Fawnton System is dead and the Storm Sector will never be the same. Houses Cafferen, Caron and Herston have been annihilated. In the case of House Cafferen, the entire population, all the Masterly and Knightly Houses have shared its fate. Houses Connington, Lonmouth and Musgood are still living, but they have lost ninety-five percent of their nobility and their holdings are now defenceless against the onslaught of their neighbours._

 _The casualty toll is atrocious._

 _Between the military and civilian losses, minimal figures are accounting for at least seven hundred and forty million dead._

 _The Loyalist Cause in the Storm Sector has suffered a blow it will never recover from._

 _The War of the Ten Warlords begins in treachery, heresy and genocide._

Extract from the Lies and the Vengeance, Anonymous author, 320AAC.

* * *

 **Lord Jacaerys Velaryon, 08.09.300AAC, Highgarden System**

There were days where it was a pleasure to stay by the Crown Prince's side, drink, feast, practise with weapons, try their new ultra-customised speed vehicles and watch young women compete for their attentions.

Today was not one of these days.

No, when there were very bad news, it was best to stay away from Aegon. Preferably several hundred kilometres away, if you had the choice.

The messenger who had brought in his hands the letter announcing the coup of King's Landing had not been aware of this information and thus had taken no precaution. Now he never would, for Aegon had seized the first vibro-sword and plunged his blade into the heart of the servant.

Seconds later, every noble and guard in attendance had escaped in a hurry. And yes, he had been among them. Jacaerys may be a Velaryon and a cousin of House Targaryen, when Aegon threw a fit of anger, there was really no one safe from his wrath.

And to be honest, he had never seen the Prince of Dragonstone so furious and filled with fury and hate.

"I WILL KILL HIM! I WILL KILL THEM ALL! TRAITORS! INCAPABLES! COWARDS!"

It was all the more impressive he could hear his liege screaming an entire wing and a good dozen walls away.

"Maybe we should ask for his betrothed to come here..."proposed Theon in a hesitant voice.

"Are you mad?" Jacaerys retorted. "Political consequences aside, I don't think he can be reasoned at all right now. If the Tyrell Lady went and got injured, Mace Tyrell would have all our heads."

Margaery Tyrell was not one of the prostitutes or smallfolk hopefuls they sent sometimes to calm his stormy outbursts. She was the daughter of a Lord Paramount, and from the few points he had been able to understand before running out of the room, the Crown prince was going to need all the support he could get in the days to come.

"I WILL PLUNGE HIM INTO A SEA OF MOLTEN GOLD TO TEACH HIM LOYALTY! FIRE AND BLOOD! HE IS NO UNCLE OF MINE! HE IS NOT A DRAGON!"

No, not the Crown Prince, he corrected inside his mind. Aegon was the King of Westeros now, the legitimate Master of the Seven Sectors and by the Grace of the Gods, the new ruler of billions of souls from the Wall to the Marches.

The first part of the message – whose credibility he hadn't been yet able to verify – was the revelation King Rhaegar Targaryen had been murdered. The second was the betrayal of Prince Viserys, who had returned the Crown forces against their legitimate masters.

Jacaerys didn't know what was in the rest of the message, but he doubted he was going to like it.

"I WILL BURN SUMMERHALL AND COVER THE GROUND WITH SALT TO ENSURE NOTHING GROWS AGAIN!"

The noise which resonated...a large vase or a large glass object had been shattered against a wall.

"I agree we don't want his future wife to be killed," Aelyx Langward winced as more objects were thrashed by Aegon's rampage. "But we will have to react to this and fast. If Viserys has taken the capital, it means the entire Crown Sector is open to attack. And with our fleet gathered here, the traitors have free reign to take a lot of systems before any defensive strategy can work."

"I will place the fleet on full alert," began Adrian Buckwell. "And I will try to see what sort of assets the Tyrells can give us for a rapid counter-attack towards the capital. We can't afford a regime of traitors in control of the greatest industrial and trade hub of Westeros. The consequences..."

The voice of the Buckwell Heir failed him, but everyone's imagination could finish the sentence on their own.

"DECIMATION IS A GOOD ANSWER FOR THESE OATH-BREAKERS!"

"I will demand audience to Lord Tyrell immediately after learning from our sources the full content of this message," Jacaerys said grimly. "But I can tell you demanding his support is going to be hellishly expensive. As long as we were in full control, pressing him against the Lannisters was never going to be a problem. But with a single fleet and the Iron Throne in the hands of the enemy, I fear the Fat Rose is going to demand a heavy price for his help."

"Hand of the King," Theon affirmed more than he demanded. Jacaerys nodded while gritting his teeth.

"We will be lucky if we didn't have to cede him half of the Royal Council and other privileges." It went without saying they had also to make his daughter a Queen, of course.

"WE SHOULD HAVE SENT THIS TRAITOR TO BRAAVOS AND ALLOWED THE ESSOSSI TO CUT HIS BALLS!"

The Lord of Driftmark pinched his nose. His tiredness and the massive headache didn't disappear.

"The next days are not going to be pleasant..."

* * *

 **Queen Rhaenyra Blackfyre, 08.09.300AAC, Witch Isle System**

In theory, the Blackfyre fleet could have assaulted Gulltown directly as it left the Narrow Void.

It was only in theory, however.

When you sent hundreds of starships on a long travel like this, attacking a well-defended system as half of your fleet was a long snake-like formation with the rear-guard hours behind...it was the height of idiocy.

No, her commanders and the ships needed to refuel, take a short break and update their simulations a bit. The potential drawback of losing the surprise effect was really minor compared to the moral gains and the firepower increase her fleet was given.

Besides, the risks had not been that high, not when you had a Master of Whisperers on your side and House Upcliff had concentrated weeks ago all its major warships at Gulltown.

"The system is yours, Arch-Dominarch," Captain-General Harry Strickland saluted stiffly.

"Very good, Captain-General," she allowed him to see her smile. "You can give the order to your squadrons for twelve hours. They can enjoy the rest."

"Thank you, my Queen!"

Rhaenyra didn't roll her eyes, but Salladhor Saan was not making things easy for her.

"Don't forget: twelve hours, not fourteen or fifteen. The captains to report late will suffer my full displeasure."

Rhaenyra cut the communications and yawned. She was going to enjoy the rest too, as it happened. Not to mention she needed it.

Twelve hours, and the Blackfyre Fleet would jump to Gulltown.

It was time for the black dragon's banners to be raised in triumph.

* * *

 **Author's note** : Operation Cataclysm has destroyed Fawnton and the dragons are returned...the galaxy will never be the same again. Next chapter will have a lot of events in the Vale and the River Sectors, I can promise that much...

If you want more to read, the maps and the warships I use as models or the tropes, here are the interesting links.

TV Tropes Page: / pmwiki/ / Fanfic/ LetTheGalaxyBurn

Alternate History page (useful for conversations, maps and ships models but you need an account, you have to remove the spaces): www. alternate history forum/ threads/ let-the-galaxy-burn- asoiaf-space-opera-au.396049 /

If you want to support my writing on P a treon, the link is: www. p a treon Antony444


End file.
